GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
                Vol. XIX.      August, 1841.      No. 2.


                                Contents

                   Fiction, Literature and Articles

          The Penitent Son
          The Colloquy of Monos and Una
          The Assault
          The Neglected Wife
          The Puritan Son
          Auzella
          School-Boy Recollections
          The Reefer of ’76
          A Day at Niagara
          Willis Gaylord Clark
          Sports and Pastimes—Angling
          Review of New Books
          Secret Writing

                       Poetry, Music and Fashion

          My Mother’s Bible
          “I Know That Thou Wilt Sorrow!”
          Sonnet
          O, Say, Do I Na’ Lo’e Ye Lassie
          Thoughts In Spring
          The Withered Rose
          Major Dade’s Command
          The Widow
          Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer
          Latest Fashions, August 1941

       Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

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[Illustration: _Painted by Prentis_       _Engraved by J. Sartain._

_The Penitent Son._

_Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]

[Illustration: embossed lace work by F. QUARRE]

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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

           Vol. XIX.    PHILADELPHIA: AUGUST, 1841.    No. 2.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE PENITENT SON.


“Father, only look at him—do but hear him!” said the soft, entreating
voice of the daughter, as she looked up imploringly into her parent’s
face, while the sobs of the penitent son shook his frame with agony.

James Vernon was the only son of two doating parents, and the heir of a
splendid fortune. Gratified in his every wish, and left almost without
restraint, he had grown up that most fatal of all things, a spoiled
child; and had it not been for a naturally frank and generous
disposition, he would have been ruined by indulgence even in his
boyhood. When, however, at fifteen, he left home for college, he still
possessed the elements of a noble character, and had he then been
entrusted to a careful tutor, he might have been saved years of folly
and subsequent misery. But, thrown among the hundreds of youth of his
own age who thronged the institution whither he was sent, with no one to
guide him aright, and habits of wilfulness, contracted at home, to urge
him on wherever whim might lead him, he soon fell into the temptations
incident to a large college, and, without intending evil so much as
seeking for amusement, became notorious for his frolics, idleness, and
even dissipation. He had not been at the university a year before his
name was regarded as that of the worst member of his class. His progress
in study was deficient, and his expenses great. His doating father at
first overlooked his son’s irregularities, thinking they would soon wear
off; but when term after term elapsed, and there was no appearance of
reformation, he expostulated strongly, almost sternly, with his child.
For a time James was moved, and almost shook off his unworthy
companions. But the effort to cut loose from them altogether required
more energy than he was capable of, and as no reformation can be lasting
when only half complete, he soon relapsed into his old habits, and,
before the term was up, was as notorious as ever for being the leader in
every mischievous or even disreputable action. This could not last. More
than once he had been warned by the faculty, and weekly—almost
daily—did his friends, by letter, expostulate with him. Frank, generous
and good-intentioned, he constantly determined to amend his conduct; but
his very open-heartedness, by rendering him incapable of resisting
temptation, prevented every lasting effort at reformation. Each failure
likewise placed him more and more in the power of his gay companions.
The result is easily told. In his second year, he was detected in a
flagrant violation of the college rules, and, as expostulation had been
used again and again in vain, he was expelled from the university. The
blow fell like a thunderbolt on his parents. His father was a rigidly
correct, and withal a proud man, and, in proportion to the affection
with which he regarded his son, was the conviction of the disgrace thus
brought upon his name. In the first emotions of his anger, he almost
vowed never to look on the face of his son again. But the prayers of the
fond mother at length prevailed; he relented, and James was once more
received under the paternal roof.

It must not be supposed that the youth was callous to his disgrace. He
felt it acutely, and the more acutely because, as every good principle
was not yet eradicated from his heart, he was conscious that he deserved
his degradation. He saw, too, how deeply injured were the feelings of
his parents; and he determined to thoroughly reform. He kept his word.
For the year that he remained under the paternal roof, he seemed another
being. But, in a fatal hour, his father yielded to his solicitations to
allow him to study a profession, and he was accordingly sent to
Philadelphia, to commence a course of lectures at the celebrated
university of that city. Who might not have foretold the result? Almost
imperceptibly, and, to a disposition like his, unavoidably, he was
seduced back into his old courses, and, before the winter was over, he
became once more celebrated as one of the most idle and dissipated
students of his class. The arrival of a few of his old companions in
college, to begin their studies for a profession, completed his ruin. He
plunged into every extravagance. His allowance, liberal as it was, fell
far short of his expenses. His bills soon accumulated to a fearful
amount. Dreading to acquaint his parent with their extent, and in order
to relieve himself from their load, he did what hitherto he had
shunned—he resorted to the gaming table. For a while he was successful,
for he had always been accounted a skilful player, and believing he now
had a resource for every emergency, he plunged still deeper into
extravagance of every character. But suddenly his luck failed him. He
lost. Again he essayed to retrieve his fortune—again he was
unsuccessful. His bills had meantime accumulated to a fearful amount;
and knowing that he had no hope for succor from his parent, he made a
desperate attempt to retrieve his losses. It was in vain. Not only did
he fail to retrieve his luck, but he went forth a ruined man, having
involved himself even still deeper. For a while he was frantic with
despair. As a last resort, he determined on applying to his mother, well
knowing that she would look with more leniency on him than his sterner
father would. He waited breathlessly for an answer. It came, directed in
his father’s handwriting. He opened the epistle with a trembling hand,
and beating heart, and read as follows:

    “Sir,

       Your letter found your mother on a sick bed, unable to
    receive any intelligence, and, as we knew from whom the packet
    came, I opened it. Its contents will account for the style of
    this epistle. You are no longer a son of mine. Two years ago,
    when you brought the disgrace on your name of having been
    expelled ignominiously from college, I almost vowed never to
    acknowledge you as a son of mine. I relented, however, and took
    you again into favor. I see now how useless it was. Again you
    have brought shame on my gray hairs; and I now make the
    determination to disown you wholly. Enclosed is a thousand
    dollars, for I will not send you penniless on the world. Let me
    never again hear from you. Change your name, since you will
    dishonor the one I bear, and remember that your own folly has
    cut loose every tie betwixt you and

                                               George L. Vernon.”

The letter fell from the hands of the young man as he ceased reading,
and for some moments, without uttering a word, he gazed on it as it lay
on the floor at his feet. In that minute how his whole past life rushed
through his memory! He thought of his infancy; his early childhood; the
rooms where he played; his little sister; his mother; the servants;
every old familiar place and thing, all now shut out to him forever. Had
he deserved to be treated with such harshness? His passion blinded him
as he said:

“No! I have not deserved it. I will be under no obligations to one who
can thus heartlessly cast me off. He disowns me—does he? Let it be.
Never will I sue for a favor again at any of their hands. From this day
forth they shall be to me as the dead.”

Shall we follow him through his career of subsequent desperation and
eventual profligacy, or shall we at once draw to a close?

More than a year had passed since Vernon had been disowned by his
parent, and he was now an outcast, and almost penniless. In all that
time he had heard nothing of home. He had seen, in the interval, every
variety of life. The gaming table had been his principal resort, for
after having, with the remittance made to him by his father, discharged
his debts of honor, he had so little left that he saw no other resource
from starvation. The vicissitudes of a gambler’s life are well known;
the inevitable result—poverty—is ever the same. By the time a
twelvemonth had elapsed, Vernon was almost penniless.

With only a few dollars in his pocket, he one night entered a low gaming
house, and for some time betted without either loss or gain. At length,
however, he lost. He threw down another stake, and that too was swept up
by the banker. His last dollar was in his hand, ready to be put up, when
he paused, and the question flashed across his mind, what if he should
lose again? Never before had he been so near to utter poverty. He had
even no place where he might lodge that night, and, save that dollar, he
owned nothing in the wide world but the garments he wore. He paused, and
turned away.

“The cards pass,” said the banker. “You do not bet this time,
sir?—another chance, and you retrieve your loss.”

Still the young man hesitated. The banker lost.

“The cards pass,” said the banker again; “you see you would have won,
sir. How much do you put up now?”

The young man glanced fiercely at the speaker, hesitated an instant, and
half turned away again; but the temptation to try his luck once more was
too great, and hastily throwing down his dollar, he grasped the cards
convulsively.

“Twenty!” said the banker, flinging his cards with a smile on the table.
“Sir, you have lost.”

The young man stared wildly at the hoary villain, and then grinding his
teeth together fiercely, with ill-concealed despair, he pushed the piece
towards his tempter, cast a stern defying glance around the room at the
curious spectators of the scene, and strode from the apartment.

“Humph!” said the banker, “I’ll bet it’s his last dollar—who takes me
up? No one, eh! Then, gentlemen, proceed.”

No sooner had the young man reached the street than he paused, and
looking up at the gay windows of the room he had left, he shook his
clenched hand fiercely at them, and exclaimed—

“Curses on ye for the ruin ye have brought upon me!—ay! ten thousand
curses on ye and your hoary owners!” and then the recollection of his
poverty seeming to cross his mind in another guise, he added, less
passionately, “My God! not a cent have they left me, even to buy a
night’s shelter. Oh! that I had never left my father’s house!”

For hours he wandered up and down the streets, now inflamed to madness
by his despair, now melting at the recollection of the happy days he had
once enjoyed under his father’s roof. Morning still found him a
wanderer. Pale, dejected and spirit-broken, he entered, at early dawn,
an obscure coffee-house, just as the sleepy menials were opening the
shutters, and sitting moodily down, picked up the morning paper. The
first paragraph that his eye lit upon was as follows:

    “Died, on the 5th inst., after a lingering illness, which she
    bore with Christian meekness and fortitude, Elizabeth, wife of
    George L. Vernon.”

The paper dropped from his grasp. For an instant all power of speech
left him. Then rushed across his mind the recollection of a thousand
things which that mother had done for her erring boy. And she had
died—died without forgiving him! Oh! at that moment, he would have
given worlds to have recalled her to life, in order that he might kneel
at her feet and solicit her pardon.

“I will arise,” at length he said, in the language of scripture, “and go
unto my father. I will sue for permission to behold her face in death;
surely that they will not deny me.”

And he arose. Completely changed in spirit, that erring son, after
nearly a day’s travel, arrived at his native village. He had parted with
every available thing to obtain funds for the journey, and reached his
father’s house just before night, penniless. He knocked hastily at the
door, not giving himself time to notice that the house bore no signs of
mourning. The old housekeeper, who happened to be crossing the hall at
the time the servant admitted him, could scarcely repress a scream of
surprise at seeing her young master.

“For God’s sake,” gasped the penitent, “Mrs. Irwin, lead me to my
mother; let me see her before the grave closes over her forever.”

The almost incoherent words and eager, impassioned gestures of the
penitent for a moment bewildered the good woman.

“Your mother! Mr. James—she is not dead; but you have seen the
newspapers’ mistake, then?”

“Not dead!” exclaimed he, falling on his knees; “then I thank thee, oh!
my Creator, that I can yet sue for her forgiveness.”

“Come, then, my dear boy,” said the old housekeeper, bursting into
tears, “and let me take you in to your parents. Oh! I have prayed for
this hour night and day, and I knew that it would come;” and while the
tears fell thick and fast down her aged cheeks, she led the now passive
penitent across the hall, opened the door of the drawing-room, and
ushered in the returning prodigal.

One glance around that well-remembered room was sufficient for the young
man. His mother sat in her easy chair, wrapped in a large shawl, and
bearing evident traces of a late illness; his sister was at her piano,
playing one of the old airs which he had heard a thousand times from
her; and his silver-haired father sat betwixt the mother and daughter,
engaged in his usual occupation of reading. Yet, oh! how care-worn were
the faces of all! And this was the work of that prodigal son. As he saw
it all, a gush of old feelings swept across the penitent’s soul, and
falling on his knees, he buried his face in his hands, and sobbed aloud
in his remorse.

“My boy!—come to my arms,” said the mother, almost hysterically,
awarding her forgiveness almost before it was solicited.

Not so the father. Rising with a frown from his chair, he was about to
advance on the intruder, when the daughter, rushing towards him, lifted
her beseeching eyes to her parent’s, and said,

“Father, only look at him—do but hear him!”

For a moment the conflict in that father’s bosom almost shook his frame
with emotion. At first he turned away, refusing to see his boy; but in
every line of his agitated face might be seen the struggle betwixt
affection for his son and his sense of injury. Nature at length
triumphed; he suffered himself to be led towards the penitent, and the
next moment the members of the re-united family were sobbing alternately
in each other’s arms.

                                                                   R.

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                           MY MOTHER’S BIBLE.


                          BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.


    This book is all that’s left me now!—
      Tears will unbidden start—
    With faltering lip and throbbing brow,
      I press it to my heart.
    For many generations passed,
      Here is our family tree;
    My mother’s hands this Bible clasped—
      She, dying, gave it me.

    Ah! well do I remember those
      Whose names these records bear:
    Who round the hearth-stone used to close,
      After the evening prayer,
    And speak of what these pages said,
      In terms my heart would thrill!—
    Though they are with the silent dead,
      Here are they living still!

    My father read this holy book
      To brothers, sisters dear—
    How calm was my poor mother’s look,
      Who leaned God’s word to hear!
    Her angel face—I see it yet!
      What thronging memories come!
    Again that little group is met
      Within the halls of home!

    Thou truest friend man ever knew,
      Thy constancy I’ve tried;
    When all were false, I found thee true,
      My counsellor and guide.
    The mines of earth no treasures give
      That could this volume buy;
    In teaching me the way to live,
      It taught me how to die.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA.


                            BY EDGAR A. POE.


Una. “Born again?”

Monos. Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These were the
words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the
explanations of the priesthood, until Death himself resolved for me the
secret.

Una. Death!

Monos. How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe, too, a
vacillation in your step—a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are
confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes,
it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word which
of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts—throwing a mildew upon
all pleasures!

Una. Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos,
did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously
did it act as a check to human bliss—saying unto it “thus far, and no
farther!” That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within
our bosoms—how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its
first upspringing, that our happiness would strengthen with its
strength! Alas! as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that evil
hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus, in time, it became
painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then.

Monos. Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine, mine forever now!

Una. But the memory of past sorrow—is it not present joy? I have much
to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the
incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow.

Monos. And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I
will be minute in relating all—but at what point shall the weird
narrative begin?

Una. At what point?

Monos. You have said.

Una. Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the
propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then,
commence with the moment of life’s cessation—but commence with that
sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid eyelids
with the passionate fingers of love.

Monos. One word first, my Una, in regard to man’s general condition at
this epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our
forefathers—wise in fact, although not in the world’s esteem—had
ventured to doubt the propriety of the term “improvement,” as applied to
the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the five
or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution, when arose some
vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose truth
appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly
obvious—principles which should have taught our race to submit to the
guidance of the natural laws, rather than attempt their control. At long
intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance in
practical science as a retro-gradation in the true utility. Occasionally
the poetic intellect—that intellect which we now feel to have been the
most exalted of all—since those truths which to us were of the most
enduring importance could only be reached by that _analogy_ which speaks
in proof-tones to the imagination alone, and to the unaided reason bears
no weight—occasionally did this poetic intellect proceed a step farther
in the evolving of the vague idea of the philosophic, and find in the
mystic parable that tells of the tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden
fruit, death-producing, a distinct intimation that knowledge was not
meet for man in the infant condition of his soul. And these men—the
poets—living and perishing amid the scorn of the “utilitarians”—of
rough pedants, who arrogated to themselves a title which could have been
properly applied only to the scorned—these men, the poets, pondered
piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when our wants were
not more simple than our enjoyments were keen—days when _mirth_ was a
word unknown, so solemnly deep-toned was happiness—holy, august and
blissful days, when blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into
far forest solitudes, primæval, odorous, and unexplored.

Yet these noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to
strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of
all our evil days. The great “movement”—that was the cant term—went
on:—a diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art—the Arts—arose
supreme, and, once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had
elevated them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the
majesty of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and
still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a god
in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might be
supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with system,
and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other
odd ideas, those of universal equality gained ground; and in the face of
analogy and of God—in despite of the loud warning voice of the laws of
_gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in Earth and Heaven—wild
attempts at an omni-prevalent Democracy were made. Yet this evil sprang
necessarily from the leading evil, Knowledge. Man could not both know
and succumb. Meantime huge smoking cities arose, innumerable. Green
leaves shrank before the hot breath of furnaces. The fair face of Nature
was deformed as with the ravages of some loathsome disease. And
methinks, sweet Una, even our slumbering sense of the forced and of the
far-fetched might have arrested us here. But now it appears that we had
worked out our own destruction in the perversion of our _taste_, or
rather in the blind neglect of its culture in the schools. For, in
truth, it was at this crisis that taste alone—that faculty which,
holding a middle position between the pure intellect and the moral
sense, could never safely have been disregarded—it was now that taste
alone could have led us gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life.
But alas for the pure contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of
Plato! Alas for the μουσικη which he justly regarded as an
all-sufficient education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!—since
both were most desperately needed when both were most entirely forgotten
or despised.[1]

Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how truly!—“_que
tout notre raisonnement se rèduit à céder au sentiment_;” and it is not
impossible that the sentiment of the natural, had time permitted it,
would have regained its old ascendancy over the harsh mathematical
reason of the schools. But this thing was not to be. Prematurely induced
by intemperance of knowledge, the old age of the world drew on. This the
mass of mankind saw not, or, living lustily although unhappily, affected
not to see. But, for myself, the Earth’s records had taught me to look
for widest ruin as the price of highest civilization. I had imbibed a
prescience of our Fate from comparison of China the simple and enduring,
with Assyria the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with Nubia, more
crafty than either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In history[2] of
these regions I met with a ray from the Future. The individual
artificialities of the three latter were local diseases of the Earth,
and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration
save in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw
that he must be “_born again_.”

And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we busied our souls, daily, in
dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the days to come,
when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having undergone that
purification[3] which alone could efface its rectangular obscenities,
should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the mountain-slopes and the
smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at length a fit
dwelling-place for man:—for man the Death-purged—for man to whose now
exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge no more—for the
redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal, but still for the
_material_, man.

Una. Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch
of the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as
the corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men
lived; and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the
grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings us thus
together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience of
duration, yet, my Monos, it was a century still.

Monos. Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it
was in the Earth’s dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties
which had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to
the fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy
delirium replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook
for pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you—after some
days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
torpor; and this was termed _Death_ by those who stood around me. Words
are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience. It
appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of him
who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and fully
prostrate in a midsummer noon, begins to steal slowly back into
consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without
being awakened by external disturbances. I breathed no longer. The
pulses were still. The heart had ceased to beat. Volition had not
departed but was powerless. The senses were unusually active, although
eccentrically so—assuming often each other’s functions at random. The
taste and the smell were inextricably confounded, and became one
sentiment, abnormal and intense. The rose-water with which your
tenderness had moistened my lips to the last, affected me with sweet
fancies of flowers—fantastic flowers, far more lovely than any of the
old Earth, but whose prototypes we have here blooming around us. The
eyelids, transparent and bloodless, offered no complete impediment to
vision. As volition was in abeyance, the balls could not roll in their
sockets—but all objects within the range of the visual hemisphere were
seen with more or less distinctness; the rays which fell upon the
external retina, or into the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid
effect than those which struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in
the former instance, this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated
it only as _sound_—sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting
themselves at my side were light or dark in shade—curved or angular in
outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree, was
not irregular in action—estimating real sounds with an extravagance of
precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had undergone a
modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily received, but
pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the highest physical
pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers upon my eyelids, at
first only recognised through vision, at length, long after their
removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight immeasurable. I
say with a sensual delight. _All_ my perceptions were purely sensual.
The materials furnished the passive brain by the senses were not in the
least degree wrought into shape by the deceased understanding. Of pain
there was some little; of pleasure there was much; but of moral pain or
pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs floated into my ear with all
their mournful cadences, and were appreciated in their every variation
of sad tone; but they were soft musical sounds and no more; they
conveyed to the extinct reason no intimation of the sorrows which gave
them birth; while the large and constant tears which fell upon my face,
telling the bystanders of a heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of
my frame with ecstasy alone. And this was in truth the _Death_ of which
these bystanders spoke reverently, in low whispers—you, sweet Una,
gaspingly, with loud cries.

They attired me for the coffin—three or four dark figures which flitted
busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my vision they
affected me as _forms_; but upon passing to my side their images
impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and other dismal
expressions of terror, of horror, or of wo. You alone, habited in a
white robe, passed in all directions musically about me.

The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a
vague uneasiness—an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
sounds fall continuously within his ear—low distant bell-tones, solemn,
at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy dreams.
Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It oppressed my
limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was palpable. There
was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant reverberation of surf,
but more continuous, which, beginning with the first twilight, had grown
in strength with the darkness. Suddenly lights were brought into the
room, and this reverberation became forthwith interrupted into frequent
unequal bursts of the same sound, but less dreary and less distinct. The
ponderous oppression was in a great measure relieved; and, issuing from
the flame of each lamp, (for there were many,) there flowed unbrokenly
into my ears a strain of melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una,
approaching the bed upon which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my
side, breathing odor from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my
brow, there arose tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the
merely physical sensations which circumstances had called forth, a
something akin to sentiment itself—a feeling that, half appreciating,
half responded to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no
root in the pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a
reality, and faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then
into a purely sensual pleasure as before.

And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its exercise
I found a wild delight—yet a delight still physical, inasmuch as the
understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal frame had fully
ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no artery throbbed. But
there seemed to have sprung up in the brain, _that_ of which no words
could convey to the merely human intelligence even an indistinct
definition. Let me term it a mental pendulous pulsation. It was the
moral embodiment of man’s abstract idea of _Time_. By the absolute
equalization of this movement—or of such as this—had the cycles of the
firmamental orbs themselves, been adjusted. By its aid I measured the
irregularities of the clock upon the mantel, and of the watches of the
attendants. Their tickings came sonorously to my ears. The slightest
deviations from the true proportion—and these deviations were
omni-prævalent—affected me just as violations of abstract truth were
wont, on earth, to affect the moral sense. Although no two of the
time-pieces in the chamber struck the individual seconds accurately
together, yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in mind the tones,
and the respective momentary errors of each. And this—this keen,
perfect, self-existing sentiment of _duration_—this sentiment existing
(as man could not possibly have conceived it to exist) independently of
any succession of events—this idea—this sixth sense, upspringing from
the ashes of the rest, was the first obvious and certain step of the
intemporal soul upon the threshold of the temporal Eternity.

It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed
from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The
lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the
monotonous strains. But, suddenly these strains diminished in
distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my
nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression
of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shock like that of
electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of the
idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged in the sole
consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of duration.
The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of the deadly
_Decay_.

Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the
sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic
intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the
flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence of
one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you sat
by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was not
unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side, which
confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the hearse,
which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which heaped
heavily the mould upon me, and thus left me in blackness and corruption
to my sad slumbers with the worm.

And here, in the prison-house, which has few secrets to disclose, there
rolled away days and weeks and solemn months, and the soul watched
narrowly each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its
flight—without effort and without object. Meantime the worm, with its
convulsive motion, writhed untorturing and unheeded about me.

A year passed. The consciousness of _being_ had grown hourly more
indistinct, and that of mere _locality_ had, in great measure, usurped
its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in that of _place_.
The narrow space immediately surrounding what had been the body, was now
growing to be the body itself. At length, as often happens to the
sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is _Death_ imaged)—at length, as
sometimes happened on Earth to the deep slumberer, when some flitting
light half startled him into awaking, yet left him half enveloped in
dreams—so to me, in the strict embrace of the _Shadow_, came _that_
light which alone might have had power to startle—the light of enduring
_Love_. Men toiled at the grave in which I lay darkling. They upthrew
the damp earth. Upon my mouldering bones there descended the coffin of
Una.

And now again all was void. That nebulous light had been extinguished.
That feeble thrill had vibrated itself into quiescence. Many lustra had
supervened. Dust had returned to dust. The worm had food no more. The
sense of being had at length utterly departed, and there reigned in its
stead—instead of all things—dominant and perpetual—the autocrats
_Place_ and _Time_. For _that_ which _was not_—for that which had no
form—for that which had no thought—for that which had no
sentience—for that which was soulless, yet of which matter formed no
portion—for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.

-----

[1] “It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than
that which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and
this may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and
_music_ for the soul.”—Repub. lib. 2. “For this reason is a musical
education most essential; since it causes Rhythm and Harmony to
penetrate most intimately into the soul, taking the strongest hold upon
it, filling it with _beauty_ and making the man
_beautiful-minded_. . . . . . He will praise and admire _the beautiful_;
will receive it with joy into his soul, will feed upon it, and
_assimilate his own condition with it_.”—Ibid, lib. 3. Music (μουσικη)
had, however, among the Athenians, a far more comprehensive
signification than with us. It included not only the harmonies of time
and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and creation, each in its
widest sense. The study of _music_ was with them, in fact, the general
cultivation of the taste—of that which recognizes the beautiful—in
contra-distinction from reason, which deals only with the true.

[2] “History” from ιστορειν, to contemplate.

[3] The word “_purification_” seems here to be used with reference to
its root in the Greek πυρ, fire.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    “I KNOW THAT THOU WILT SORROW!”


                         BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.


    I know that thou wilt sorrow, when first I pass from earth,
    And at thy pale and quivering lip shall gleam no sign of mirth,
    For grief shall sit upon thy brow, in sad, unseemly guise,
    And tears, e’en though thou art a man, shall well up to thine eyes.

    For each young plant, each speaking flower, and old familiar place
    Will seem to gaze with sadness, up to thine averted face;
    And when, perchance, another hand my own sweet chords shall sweep,
    Thou’lt list to those remembered tones, and turn aside and weep!

    And when another’s thoughtless voice, shall breathe to thee my name,
    And whisper that the sound was linked with an undying fame,
    No pride shall mantle o’er thy cheek, nor darkle in thine eye,
    For idle words breathed of the dead, should pass as idly by.

    Thou’lt miss my step at even, when thou drawest near thy home,
    When gleam the ever-sleepless stars, from yon eternal dome;
    And thou wilt sit and gaze at them, nor shall thou gaze unmoved,
    For, oh! thou’lt think, that I too well their startling beauty loved!

    Thou’lt miss me, and will seek to claim the tempest of thy soul,
    For passions all untamed as those, shall bend to thy control;
    And grief, that erst sat on thy brow, thou’lt spurn from out thy
      heart,
    And with each old remembrancer most willingly will part.

    When my dim-remembered features shall pass from memory,
    When the music of my name, shall wake no answering melody,
    Thou wilt turn thee to another, and she will be to thee,
    E’en all that I have ever been,—all I could hope to be!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              THE ASSAULT.


                             BY J. H. DANA.


It was the last morning of the assault. The sun had risen heavily across
the eastern highlands, flinging his slant beams upon the embattled
armies of the cross, and disclosing, as the mists rolled upwards from
the valley, mangonel, and tower, and battering-ram, and serried troops
of warriors, drawn up in array before Jerusalem,—and now as the shout
“to the Holy City,” swelled out upon the air, and the priests, in
sacerdotal robes, lifted up their chaunt again, the whole vast mass, as
if by a simultaneous impulse, moved forward from their stations, and
with lance, and shield, and banner, and shouts of triumph, and clashing
of arms, marched on to the assault. All Europe was up. Prince and
subject; noble and serf; layman and monk; the rich and the poor; the
proud and the humble; old, young, and middle aged; stalwart men and
feeble women; the knight in his armor, and the boor in his capote,—the
bishop with his crozier, and the friar in his cowl; the halt, the deaf,
the blind; all ranks and conditions of life swelled the gigantic host,
which, gathering new accessions to its numbers in every land it
traversed, had rolled on with threatening aspect over Palestine,
carrying terror and desolation to the Saracens, until at length the
mighty army was now arrayed before Jerusalem, burning to achieve the
redemption of the sepulchre. Yes! Europe was there in arms, moved as one
man, by one spirit. From hill and dale; from city and hamlet; from the
castle of the noble and the cottage of the boor; from cloister, and
forge, and plough, the sons of the church had gathered at her summons,
fired with a lofty determination to avenge an insulted faith, and
scourge back to the fastnesses from whence they came the sacrilegious
followers of the crescent. There was the bluff Englishman, the
fair-haired German, the tall gaunt Scot, the gay cavalier from Provence,
the dark eyed son of Italy, and the wild and uncouth child of that green
“Erin,” of the ocean, lying on the utmost verge of civilization, and
known only by vague rumor as the habitation of man. Ay! all these were
there—there, with spear, and sword, and cross-bow—there, in glittering
casque, and homely jerkin—there, on proudly caparisoned steeds, or
marching with soiled buskin humbly on foot. Soldiers of every garb,
tongue, and nation; men who had been enemies but were now friends;
warriors, who had hitherto lived only for rapine, joined in that wild
shout, and with an enthusiasm they had never felt before, swept on the
second time to the assault—and ever as they marched, in solid phalanx
or open column, Frank, or Saxon, or Italian, they swelled out the cry,
“Ho! soldiers of the cross—on to the Holy City!”

And now the battle was joined. Foremost of all, in his lofty tower,
stood Godfrey of Bouillon, cheering on the attack, and directing his
unerring shafts against every one who appeared upon the walls;—while
beneath and around him, plying mangonel and battering-ram, or showering
arrows on the foe, pressed on the humbler soldiers of the cross—ay!
pressed on, although the missiles of the Saracens poured down like rain,
and melted lead, and scalding water, and fire itself, fell thick and
fast upon the hosts of the assailants. And still on they pressed, and
though the ground was strewed with the dying, and every moment some new
assailant fell, the gallant line of the Crusaders never swerved, but as
fast as one went down another filled his place; and as the long hours of
the morning passed away, and the Saracens maintained their walls,
fighting with the desperation of men who were contending for their
homes, the fearless assailers kept pressing on to the attack, determined
to succeed in the assault or leave their bones to bleach before the
walls. One universal enthusiasm pervaded the whole host. Old and young;
peaceful monks and timid women; the sick, the halt, the dumb, came forth
from the camp, bringing weapons for those who had spent their missiles,
carrying water for the parched combatants, or cheering the dying in
their last moments of mortal agony. And higher and higher mounted the
sun, and sultry and more sultry grew the air, yet still the Saracens
made good their walls, and when the exhausted soldiers were almost
fainting from the fatigues of the day, the beseiged made one more
desperate rally, and, collecting all their strength for a last effort,
they bore down upon the soldiers of the cross, and drove them, with
terrific slaughter, from the walls. Back—back—back they fled, in wild
dismay. In vain their leaders attempted to rally the worn-out soldiers;
they themselves could scarcely support their frames, exhausted by their
heavy armor and the stifling heat of noonday. Further effort was
hopeless. The despair was general. A wild shout of exultation rung out
from the walls, as the Saracens seized the image of a cross, spat upon
it, and cast it, with insulting gestures, into the ditch. The taunt
stung the assailants to the heart. At that instant a shining horseman,
clad in armor brighter than the day, and waving on high a sword that
shone with the brilliancy of the sun seven times brightened, was seen
upon the Mount of Olives, beckoning to the discomposed assailants, and
pointing onwards to the Holy Sepulchre; and as one after another of the
wearied crusaders beheld the blessed vision, sighs, groans, and tears
burst from the assembled thousands, and clashing their arms deliriously
aloft, and waving their banners wildly to and fro upon the air, they
cried out, “Ho! soldiers of the cross—on to the Holy City!”

And on they swept. Horse and foot; archer and man-at-arms; wounded and
unhurt; noble and retainer; Frank, Gaul, and German; the Saxon, and
Tuscan; the old, the young, the middle aged; leader and follower; proud
and humble; free and bond;—on—on—on they pressed, as if a whirlwind
had sent them reeling upon the foe, bearing every thing down before
them, plying cross-bow and mangonel, hurling huge stones that crushed
the foe like glass, and heaving battering-rams that shook the walls as
if an earthquake was rolling by. Ay! on they pressed, for did not the
archangel wave them to the onset? The foe shrank back amazed. Outwork,
and door-post, and palisade could offer no resistance to the enthusiasm
of the Christians. Vain were the wildest efforts of the infidels to stay
the progress of the assailing hosts; vain were their adjurations to the
prophet, their impious prayers for help, their insulting prostrations
before high heaven. The hurricane that levels cities was not more
desolating than the onslaught of the Christians. They dashed across the
plain, they drove in the outposts, they crossed the ditch itself; and
now the tower of Godfrey reached the walls—the bridge was let down—a
rush was made, and a knight sprang on the battlements. Another and
another followed—the Saracens stood palsied—Godfrey, Baldwin, Bouillon
rushed in—down went the sacrilegious infidels who opposed them—a wild
conflict, beyond what the battle had yet seen, took place around the
standard of the crescent; and lo! with a shout that men shall remember
till the day of judgment, the impious ensign is hurled from the
battlements, and the cross—the cross of Christ—floats wild and free
above the towers of Jerusalem. Then rose up the acclamations of
thousands—then pealed the triumphal chaunts of priests—then quailed
the Saracen with fear in the remotest dens of that vast city. The day
was won. The cross was avenged. Tancred and Robert of Normandy heard the
triumphal shout, and burst open the furthermost gates with sudden
energy; while Raimond of Toulouse scaled the walls upon the other side
at the outcry, and shook the cross to the wind beyond the Holy
Sepulchre. Down went the Saracens in street and lane, and open field, or
wherever these unholy revilers of the church attempted to make their
stand. From house to house, and street to street, the indignant
conquerors pursued the foe, until the thoroughfares were filled with
blood, and the infidels lay slaughtered in heaps on every hand; and
wherever the Christians followed up the flying wretches, in mansion or
in mosque, they kept in memory the insult to the cross which they had
witnessed but the hour before, and keeping it in memory, their arms
never tired, nor their weapons slackened. It was a day over which for
ages the Saracen women wept. The mosque of Omar floated with gore; the
streets were slippery with blood; not a nook or corner gave safety to
one of that accursed race; and when, at length, the Saracens rushed in
wild despair to the temple of Soliman, even there the avenging
Christians sought them out, and a thousand, ay! ten times a thousand
impious revilers slaked the earth with their gore. And when the work was
done, and that fearful insult was avenged; when the conquering army had
time to think of the mighty deed they had achieved; when they remembered
that within the walls where they now were the Savior had been buried, a
gush of holy tenderness swept over their souls,—old and young, noble
and peasant, men, women, and children,—and with tears in their eyes,
they cast aside their weapons, took off their sandals, and, rushing to
the Holy Sepulchre, kissed the consecrated pavement, and washed the
altar with their tears. And when twilight darkened over the city, the
vespers of holy men went up to heaven, for the first time after the
lapse of centuries, instead of the accursed Mezzuin’s call. Night came
down at length, and silence hung over the walls. The shrieks of the
wounded; the groans of the dying; the crackling of burning habitations,
and the impious revilings of the infidels had ceased: while not a sound
broke the profound hush of midnight, except the faint gurgling of the
brook of Kedron, and the low whispers of the night wind among the
palaces of Jerusalem. And a thousand stars looked brilliantly down from
the calm blue sky, as if the angels, whose thrones they are, were
shouting hallelujahs that the last day of the Saracen had passed.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                SONNET.


                           BY PARK BENJAMIN.


    Loved of my soul! I seek in vain for thee.
      Why from my sight art thou, sweet star, away?
      Heaven is not fair without thy tender ray,
    And all things robed in shadow seem to be.
    The evening wind has lost its melody:
      Hushed are the chords on every bending bough;
      The waters have no voice of music now,
    And silence, dove-like, broods upon the sea.
    Is there no light, indeed—no joyous sound
      When Beauty dwelt with Song, and Nature cast
    Treasures of Summer happiness around?
    Oh, yes! unchanged the verdant prospect lies—
      The present is as lovely as the past—
    It only lacks the lustre of thine eyes.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE NEGLECTED WIFE.


                           BY ROBERT MORRIS.


                     “Oh! there were hours
           When I could hang forever on his eye,
           And Time, who stole with silent swiftness by,
           Strew’d, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.”


The relations of life abound with solemn warnings and touching
incidents. Scarcely a community exists, however small, the history of
which is not replete with scenes that, if delineated by the pen of a
master spirit, and embellished with a few of the golden rays of fancy,
would not seem fraught with romance. Nay, there is scarcely a family of
any extent that has not stories in its private chronicles, “lights and
shadows,” joys and sorrows, full of interest, and calculated, when
suitably embellished and elaborated, to “point a moral or adorn a tale.”
We “live, move and breathe” in a world of mystery. The shadows which
veil a single year—nay, a single day—from the eye of poor mortality,
may to some be charged with death and desolation, while to others they
may serve to shut out the glorious light of hope and happiness and
prosperity. The incident which to-day gladdens the heart and kindles the
expectation, may to-morrow prove but as the lightning’s flash, that
foreruns the bolt of the destroyer. Thus we know not what is best for
us, and while seeking to deserve the due of virtue and integrity, we
should check our own hearts when envying the apparent success of
another, and murmuring at what, to our imperfect vision, may appear an
unequal distribution of the blessings of Providence.

Such was the tone of reflection in which I indulged a few evenings
since, on returning from a visit to a friend—a friend whose career of
honor and ambition had, but a year or two before, excited a feeling in
the mind somewhat akin to envy. But let me not anticipate.

Laura Milnor, at the age of sixteen, was one of the loveliest of her
sex. Her beauty was girlish and buoyant, and made up of such elements as
youth and hope and innocence and joy. Her laugh thrilled upon the ear
like the clear voice of a glad child; her step was elastic and aerial,
and although as mirthful and happy as one who had never known a thought
of grief or a dream of sorrow, she was one of the most susceptible of
her sex, and was melted to tears almost as readily as she was excited to
mirth. Blue eyes, auburn hair, and a voice full of music—she was too
sensitive for the heartlessness of this world, and thus it was the fear
of those who knew her character thoroughly, and were well acquainted
with human nature in the aggregate, that she would be won too readily,
and possibly waste the sweetness of her pure and guileless heart upon an
unworthy object. Not so, however. At seventeen, she was the “bright,
particular star” of her immediate circle, with groups of admirers, of
various grades of merit and pretension, but with an avowed, preferred
and envied suitor. He had a rival, it is true, and a formidable one;
because, to a considerable fortune he added a sincerity of devotion and
an assiduity of attention that seldom fail to make an impression upon
the heart of woman, however obdurate. But the preferred suitor, Morton
Markley, was a cousin, and had been preferred, to a slight degree, from
earliest boyhood. His opportunities for pressing his suit, moreover,
were of the best kind; he was a favorite with the family generally, and
these influences were potent in determining Laura as to a choice. Nay,
the avowal of preference was scarcely determined upon by her. It was
rather made by the household circle, and regarded as a thing of course,
than elicited from the artless girl in some quiet and impassioned moment
of mutual confidence. At times, too, she felt something like a doubt—a
doubt as to the _reality_ of her attachment to her cousin. She knew—she
_felt_ that she esteemed him. He possessed many noble qualities. His
habits were of the kind that her mother approved in an especial manner.
He was not only strictly moral, but temperate from his earliest youth—a
zealot in the cause, indeed—and withal thoroughly devoted to business.
True, he was somewhat stiff and formal in his manners, possessed little
or no imagination, had no taste for poetry or pathos, and was somewhat
cold in his general character. In most of these particulars he afforded
a broad contrast to his rival, George St. Clair, a free, dashing,
thoughtless creature, all impulse and enthusiasm, with a flashing genius
and a heart of fire. But all these qualities were moderated and subdued
in the presence of Laura Milnor. She had achieved a conquest over his
heart, and he yielded to her every wish, and even often anticipated her
thoughts. But he saw her seldom, comparatively speaking, and although
the impression he made at such times was decided, it was but momentary.
Laura would occasionally hesitate, especially when she found the image
of St. Clair rising up in her memory, and she discovered herself
analysing his traits of disposition and manner, and contrasting them
with those of her cousin. But she blushed when she detected the current
of her thoughts, and turned away from the subject as from one that she
ought not to contemplate. St. Clair, moreover, was a ripe scholar for
his years, perfectly familiar with the poetry of the classics, and with
modern literature. His practice was to mark the exquisite passages in
his favorite authors, and thus, while indicating his own sentiments and
tone of mind, to appeal, as it were, to the calm and reflecting spirit
of Laura. How often did she find herself unconsciously meditating upon
these gems of thought—these eloquent and impassioned pourings out of
the souls of the gifted! How frequently did the brief but expressive
notes touch a chord in her own breast, and speak in a still, but deep
voice to her own spirit! It was on such occasions that she trembled lest
she had mistaken the feeling that animated her with regard to her
cousin. But then he was so good, so calm, so attentive! They had grown
up side by side! Her mother, her brother, her elder sister, all
respected him so much—he was so amiable, and his prospect in life was
so excellent! No—it was impossible. There could not be any mistake as
to the nature of her feelings, and she would consent and name the day.

The day _was_ named, and the bridal took place. The party was large,
gay, delightful. I shall never forget that wedding night. It was one of
the happiest of my existence—a joyous epoch in memory’s waste, which
shines with no common glory as the mind wanders back and lingers above
the regretted past. Laura, so charming before, seemed to excel all her
former brightness and beauty. Sweet seventeen—the loveliest of the
lovely, glittering in gems and satin, with her blue eyes brightened with
a double lustre by the excitement of the moment, her auburn hair waving
like a flood of moonbeams upon her white shoulders: approving relations
and friends around! That indeed seemed a happy moment—the happiest of
her life. But _was_ it so? Her affianced also looked remarkably well. He
had thrown off his gravity of manner, his dignity of deportment, and
joined the jest and laugh as if the world to him also had assumed its
sunniest smile. But I need not describe the etceteras of the wedding. At
twelve o’clock, Mr. and Mrs. Markley were taken in charge by the usual
number of select and officiating friends, and driven to their own home,
a neat but elegantly furnished establishment, No. 47 —— Row.

I was absent from the city two years. On my return, one of my first
visits was to the house of my old friend Markley. It was a delightful
evening in the month of May, 1836. The weather for the preceding week
had been wet and disagreeable, so that the change and a bright moon had
won hundreds from their dwellings to enjoy the cool evening breeze, and
gaze once more into the windows of the stores. I inquired for Mr.
Markley. He was not in. For Mrs. Markley. Her parlor door was thrown
open, and Laura stood before me—but how changed! She was paler,
thinner, and, to my eye, lovelier than ever. The delicate cast of
thought had given an intellectual aspect to her features. The ruddy
glow, the buoyant, springy motion of girlhood, were no longer there;
but, in the one case, the ripeness of the peach had been succeeded by
the soft tints of the rose, and in the other, the gazelle-like bound had
mellowed and melted into the more graceful and majestic movement of the
perfect woman. Her reception was frank and cordial. My visit seemed a
relief to her. She had “been alone for more than an hour, and had wanted
so much to take a stroll. Her spirits had been checked for the week past
by the gloomy weather, and _now_, when they seemed anxious to spring
away, as if on new-born wings, she was compelled, like a bird in a cage,
to remain within doors. Oh, these abominable meetings! This dreadful
political excitement! These detestable societies! Would you believe it,
Mr. Markley has not been home a single evening for these two weeks! He
has become a violent politician, and is a member of several literary and
philanthropic societies. These occupy four-fifths of his time, and
although he is one of the very best husbands in the world, kind, gentle
and affectionate when here, I do not see him except at meal times, three
hours in a fortnight. And here I sit, ‘moping’ away my young hours,
thinking all sorts of melancholy things, indulging sometimes in the
wildest of fancies, and not unfrequently—although I am almost ashamed
to confess it—killing the time and giving vent to my moody temper in a
fit of crying! It is of no use to complain to Morton. He is perfectly
mad upon the subject of politics, and fancies, dear soul, that he is
building up for himself an enviable reputation.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, indeed! Until the death of my first-born I bore it very well, for
the little innocent engaged my attention in a thousand ways, and the
time passed smoothly enough. But since that painful event—nearly a year
ago—the time has hung heavily indeed. I don’t know what I should do but
for our old friend St. Clair. He calls frequently, and serves no little
to chase away the gloom of these lonely hours. You remember St. Clair!”

“Certainly. I have not met him since the night of your wedding, and
then, poor fellow, he endeavored to _look_ and _act_ his best, but he
made a sorry failure of it. Has he married yet?”

“Oh, no! He tells me he will never marry, but of course the hour of
temptation and trial is yet to come. He has changed very little within
the last three years, and although not so gay and reckless as formerly,
his spirits are still excellent. Mr. Markley prizes him very highly, and
frequently consigns me to his care for a stroll, while he hurries off to
some political club or abominable meeting. Can you furnish me with any
remedy for the sort of infatuation I have described in the case of
Morton? I am really provoked at him at times, and have ventured to
remonstrate more than once, but never with a good effect either upon his
temper or his conduct. Oh! how frequently have the lines of the poet
risen to my memory during the tedious hours of waiting and of watching!

          ——‘May slighted woman turn,
    And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off,
    Bend lightly to her tendencies again?
    Oh, no! by all her loveliness, by all
    That makes life poetry and beauty, no!
    Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek
    By needless jealousies; let the last star
    Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain;
    Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all
    That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give
    One evidence of love, and earth has not
    An emblem of devotedness like hers.
    But, oh! estrange her once, it boots now how,
    By wrong or silence, anything that tells
    A change has come upon your tenderness—
    And there is not a high thing out of heaven
    Her pride o’ermastereth not.’

I ridiculed them when they were first pointed out to me by St. Clair,
but sad experience has taught me better.”

Such, in brief, was the nature of the conversation of the night. I
remained until a late hour, exceedingly anxious to see my old friend,
but the clock struck eleven, and he had not returned. Wandering
homeward, a crowd of strange thoughts pressed upon my brain. Can he love
this gentle being? I asked. And then his whole course through life came
to my recollection, and I dismissed every doubt. He does love her to the
extent of his ability. Then why neglect her? Why permit melancholy to
prey upon her gentle spirit? Why subject her to the fascinations of such
a man as St. Clair?—temptations at which both would shrink with horror
at first, but which, sooner or later, with such a being, such hearts,
such sympathy of soul and of taste, must establish a bond very like that
of love! The subject was a painful one, and I dismissed it, unwilling to
probe it to the bottom.

I visited Laura repeatedly during the subsequent six months. I became
deeply interested in her position, and more than once ventured to hint,
jestingly, to her husband the duty of watching with a vigilant eye over
so precious and delicate a flower. He appeared perfectly insensible to
all insinuations upon the subject, and with unbounded confidence in, and
as much attachment for Laura as his nature was capable of feeling, he
became more and more wedded to his dream of political ambition and
popular applause. He was a member of most of the societies that were in
any degree connected with philanthropy, and of all on the political side
to which he was attached; and thus, night after night, week after week,
and month after month, he absented himself from the society of his wife.

But why prolong the story? Hour after hour, the conviction grew stronger
in the mind of Laura that she had mistaken the sentiments of her
husband. He had, she now believed, never loved her. He had either
deceived her or been himself deceived. It was clear that he shunned her
society, and although kind and obliging, this course was attributed
rather to his tone of mind and moral principle than to a warmer and
fonder emotion of his heart. She too had been mistaken. At least she
thought so. The feeling that had induced her to become his wife was not
love; not that deep and absorbing passion, that flame and fire of the
soul, that she now could feel and appreciate. He was her cousin; she had
known him long; he had ever been kind to her; her parents had urged her
marriage, and she had been misled! But, alas! how had he deserted her!
How had she been neglected! How cold had he become! How indifferent!
What a contrast to St. Clair!—St. Clair, who even now would lay down
his life for her; who even now _sought_ her society, and was never so
happy as when basking in her smile! Her heart thrilled, her brain
throbbed, and her mind almost maddened as these wild thoughts forced
themselves upon her. I say forced themselves, for she repelled them
again and again, as fiends that would destroy her quiet, sap her
principles, and render her an object of scorn even to herself. But night
after night, and her husband was still abroad. At first she saw him
depart with pride upon her lip and anguish in her heart. Then sullenness
followed, and indifference came after. Then a feeling of pleasure
tingled in her breast as the door closed behind him, and a still
stronger sensation was experienced as the well known step of St. Clair
was heard upon the pavement below her window. But why trace the progress
of the weak, the erring human heart? Why linger over the guilt-ward
progress of that neglected wife? Why harrow the soul with her struggles
between duty on the one hand and infatuation on the other? Why point to
her fall, as, step by step, she was hurried to the brink of ruin? Why
detail the subtle sophistry of a gifted spirit—one, too, who had
persuaded himself that he really loved with a pure and undying flame?
Why recount his many appeals to fly to some other land, some distant
shore, where the scorn of the heartless world could not point at and
exult over another victim? Why picture the secret and agonizing thoughts
of the wretched beauty; the sorrow that at moments fastened upon her
soul, when some heart-touching expression fell from the lips of her
husband, and she was recalled by a look or a phrase to her early dream
of home and love and happiness?

It was late in the month of September, that, rambling down Spruce
street, my attention was attracted by an unusual stir and confusion in
the front parlor of my friend Markley’s dwelling. Lights were passing to
and fro with great rapidity, and ever and anon a shriek, as of one in
mortal agony, broke upon the night. I hurried forward, rapidly ascended
the stairs, and what a scene of horror was before me! The slight, yet
beautiful form of Laura Markley lay upon the sofa, her hair dishevelled,
her clothes in disorder, and her features pale and cold in the solemn
aspect of death! It was almost midnight; her husband had been sent for,
but had not yet arrived. Miserable being! Blind and misguided fool! He
came in a few minutes after, and for weeks and weeks was little better
than a maniac. The following brief note, the last ever penned by Laura,
told the dreadful story:

“Forgive me, Charles! forgive me, if I have wronged you! I can endure it
no longer. Night after night have you neglected me for the last two
years, until my mind, maddened by doubt, despair, and a thousand
fiendish phantoms, has ventured to pause and contemplate a deed of
guilt! There is, I verily believe, another being on the face of the
earth who loves me, and I—I—my hand trembles and my brain reels—I am
yet yours, and in honor. But I fear I could not live, be neglected, and
continue so. Forgive me, heaven!—forgive me, my husband, and pray for
me.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

She had taken poison!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            THE PURITAN SON.


BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” ETC.


In the West Riding of Yorkshire, not many miles removed from the line of
the great North Road, singularly and somewhat romantically situated on a
vast rocky hill, projecting sternly and abruptly into the lovely valley
of the Nid, stands the old borough town of Knaresborough. As you
approach it from the south, the aspect it presents is singularly wild
and picturesque. A long line of steep limestone crags, running from east
to west, limits the view in front; the river, deep, black and sullen,
wheeling along below their base in many a turbid ripple, until it skirts
their western cape, a huge and perpendicular crag of shaley limestone,
crowned by the massy relics of an old Norman keep, rifted and gray, and
overrun with immemorial ivy, but still majestic in their hoary grandeur.
Beneath the shelter of this formidable keep—which, in its day, before
the levelling force of gunpowder had reduced warfare to a mere matter of
scientific calculation, had been deemed quite impregnable—the
straggling country town climbs the hill-side from the stream’s level,
where the road is carried over a narrow, high-backed bridge of stone, in
one long zigzag street, so perilously slippery and steep that the most
daring riders dismount from their surest horses, whether ascending or
descending, until, the summit gained, it expands into a neat borough,
with market-place, and hostelries, and banks, and churches, all
overlooked, however, and commanded by the old castle; and, in its turn,
overlooking and commanding the wide range of hilly country of which it
occupies the extreme and highest promontory.

Such is the picture it presents to the traveller of the present day, and
singularly beautiful is that picture! The huge gray ruins and the
stained limestone precipices, relieved and set off by the deep emerald
verdure of the wide pastures in the valley, and the dark foliage of the
hanging woods which skirt the margin of the river; the stream itself
here dark and deep and silent, and there flashing like silver in the
sunlight, and brawling noisily about the base of the great castle-rock;
and, more than all, the life and animated bustle of the modern town,
contrasted with the dim memories and solemn silence of those old towers,
which frown upon the noisy thoroughfares of men, most like a grim and
ghastly skeleton, glaring down from the gothic niche of some cathedral
church upon the merry sports of thoughtless childhood. Far different was
the scene which Knaresborough presented toward the middle of the
seventeenth century, Some few weeks later than the fatal field of
Marston, whereon, untimely sacrificed and vainly, by the mad rashness of
Prince Rupert, the flower of England’s loyal chivalry lay weltering in
their gore, for one who neither prized their faith nor sorrowed at their
fall.

Those ruins, shapeless now, and undistinguished from the gray crags
around them, were then a proud and lordly castle; that huge and rifted
pile, that frowns above the lesser fragments, was the square dungeon
keep, with battlemented turrets at each aerial angle, and bartizans for
shot of arquebuss and musquetoon, and embrasures for heaviest ordnance;
while round it swept the massy flankers, with thirteen strong round
towers, well garnished with the lighter cannon of the day, sakers and
culverins and falcons; and without these, still in concentric circles,
half moon and counterscarp and ravelin, glacis and rock-hewn moat—a
mighty fortress for the king, whose banner, hoisted there by the
fugitives from that disastrous field, still waved defiance to his
foemen.

It was a bright October morning with which we have to do; the sun was
pouring a broad flood of light over the fertile vale, with its green
meadowland, its hanging woods, its ruddy cornfields, and its bright
river; over the town and castle, crowded, this with fierce steel-clad
veterans, mustered beneath the royal standard, that with the yeomanry
and burghers, like their more regular comrades, in arms for church and
king against the leaguering hosts of Cromwell; over the camp, the lines,
the outposts of the Puritans, which hemmed the destined town about with,
as it were, a wall of iron. Upon the heights, just to the eastward of
the town, the fierce, enthusiastic Lilburne had fixed his quarters, and
hoisted the broad red cross of the parliament, and thence, on every
side, had drawn his lines about the borough; the bridge and the high
road, on the south side, were kept by a brigade of pikes and two strong
bands of horse arquebusiers; the meadows and the vale were swept by four
full regiments of the far-famed invincibles, the ironsides of Cromwell;
the woods were filled with sharp-shooters, the roads blocked up with
mounds and trenches, and all the north side of the town exposed to a
tremendous fire from fifty wide-mouthed cannon, which, covered from the
castle guns by a projecting hillock, battered the dwellings of the
hapless burghers without remorse or respite. Nor were the besieged
passive in the mean time, or fearful. Bright sheets of flame would leap
out, ever and anon, from the dark castle embrasures, and clouds of
snow-white smoke would swathe the giant keep in their dense vapory
shroud, and with a roar that told the awful tale of civil warfare even
to the distant walls of York, the heavy shot would plunge into the
serried columns of the leaguers, thinning their ranks indeed, and
shaking for a moment their array, but daunting not their fiery courage,
nor damping their enthusiastic zeal. And now, with the long roll of
drums and the soul-stirring flourish of the horn and bugle, from this
point or from that of the beleaguered town, the cavaliers would sally
out on their besiegers. Now by some ford of the swift river, neglected
because thought impassable, a little troop of gentlemen, superbly
mounted on high blooded chargers, fluttering with lace and waving with
tall plumes and blue embroidered scarfs, would dash upon some picquet of
the Puritans, and drive them back, scattered and broken and cut down, to
the main body; and then, forced to retreat in turn, would fall back foot
by foot, firing their petronels and musquetoons from every hedge and
coppice, and charging again and again on their pursuers from every spot
of vantage, till they had gained the river; then they would wheel, throw
in one shattering volley, swim through the eddying waters, and raise
their gallant cheer, “God for King Charles!” in safety. Now it would be
a steadier and sterner effort; a heavy column would rush out, pikemen
and musqueteers and horse in one dense body, bearing the outposts in at
the pike’s point, carrying some redoubt, and then deploying in its
front, until their pioneers and axemen should spike its guns, fill up
its ditches, and level its defences to the ground. Incessant were alarms
and panics, sallies and feints and false attacks on the one hand; and,
on the other, strict watches, stout resistance, guarded and sure
approaches, for Lilburne knew right well the quality of his own
troops—the nature of the force opposed to him. He had experienced often
in the field the fiery and resistless charges of the impetuous
cavaliers; he knew that in the stoutest veterans of the Parliament, none
could be found who, for a single dash, could cope with the high-born and
chivalrous adherents of the King; but he knew also that undisciplined
and fiery gentlemen, how gallant and how desperate soever, would not
endure the tedium of protracted operations, the dull monotony of a long
siege, where passive opposition only can be offered, the lack of wine
and the appliances of mirth, the scarcity of food, the daily sufferings,
the daily waste, the daily growing anguish. He knew, and acted on this
knowledge. Vastly superior in his numbers, he cared not for the loss of
a picquet; he shook not at the defeat of an outpost, the destruction of
a redoubt, or the success of a sally. If evening saw the line of his
circumvallation broken, the morning sun beheld his working parties on
the ground repairing the defences, protected by so powerful masses that
any sally must be fruitless to annoy them, and evening found the lines
again complete, but stronger, nearer, closer than before. Nor was this
all. With his strong cavalry, he kept the country round in constant
terror and excitement; he cut off every convoy, before it well had left
the place from which it started; he surprised every stronghold of the
cavaliers, at miles away from his scene of operations; he took and
garrisoned the loyal house of Ripley; he battered Spofforth Castle, the
old, time-honored dwelling of the Percies; he quelled the risings of the
Langdales, the Vavasours, the Slingsbys and the Stourtons. He indeed
bridled the bold valor of the West Riding, as he had boasted that he
would—bridled it with a curb of iron!

Yet Knaresborough still held out!—castle and town held out, though worn
and wasted with fatigue and famine. Hastily had the brave defenders
thrown themselves into that stronghold, scantily victualled as it was,
expecting succors from without, as it were, every hour, and prepared
desperately to endure the utmost before submission to their hated foes.
Hastily, rashly had they suffered themselves to be hemmed in, without a
hope except to die, and desperately had they borne up against the
tortures which had rewarded that hot rashness. And now the moment had
arrived. For three whole days, the castle and the town had had no food
at all! All stores had, many days since, been exhausted; the very grass
that grew upon the ramparts had been all gathered, all consumed! The
beasts of burthen, the domestic animals, the very vermin, had been
sought eagerly for food—had been devoured greedily—till no more could
be found at all in that most miserable town. There was not one house but
had lost some of its inmates, by that most lingering, most terrible of
deaths, mere famine!—and it was on the youngest, the fairest, the
loveliest, the most beloved, that the dread doom fell first. The streets
were heaped with carcasses, for now the living lacked the strength, the
energy, to bury their own dead! Thrice had the burghers risen against
the castle, to force its commandant, by surrendering to the Puritans, to
free them from that lamentable durance; and thrice had the gray-headed
cavalier, who held that last stronghold for an unthankful monarch—while
the tears streamed hot and heavy down his emaciated cheeks, and his
heart throbbed as if it would burst his bosom, for very pity—ordered
the castle guns to play with grape upon the famished wretches, whose
despair would have forced him from his duty. Three times, repulsed from
the castle by their friends, had that most hapless populace rushed out
to the besieger’s camp, throwing themselves upon the mercy of their
foes, and hoping so to force their way into the open country, and three
times, at pike’s point, had they been driven back into that town of
sepulchres and charnel houses.

It was the third day that no particle of food, except some scraps of
leather, roasted or sodden into soup, had passed the lips of any of the
garrison, on which a sad deputation of the townsmen waited for the
fourth time upon the captain of the castle. They came not now in
turbulence, hoping to _force_ submission, but tearfully and on their
bended knees, to beg that stern old veteran, as they deemed him, that
for the love of God, by all his hopes of Heaven, he would have mercy
_not_ on them, they said, “for we are men, and can endure the utmost,
but for our wives, our perishing wives and children!”

“My friends,” he answered, “I feel for you—God is my judge I do!—and
here, here is my witness that none hath heavier cause to feel than I
have,” and as he spoke, he opened the door of an inner chamber, and
showed to those worn deputies the corpse of a fair, light-haired youth,
stretched on a pallet bed, emaciated beyond all conception—yea!
literally wasted to the bones! “Look there!” he said, “look there! Six
little days ago that famished, cold, dead carcass was the most fair, the
sprightliest, the bravest, the best, the noblest boy in all wide
England! You see him, as he lies there—_my_ boy, my glorious boy!—oh,
God! last pledge of my lost angel, who, dying, left him to my paternal
care, which here is proved forever! Gentlemen, ye are answered; when my
King’s orders reach me to yield up this hold, then will I yield it
up—’till then, please God, I shall maintain it; and so long as my
trusty fellows have boots, and sword belts, and buff jerkins, we shall
not lack a meal. So, my friends, fare ye well.”

To this there was no answer; from this lay no appeal. They went away, as
they had come, despairing; they betook themselves to their inhospitable
homes, to their wan, starving families, and sat them down beside their
fireless hearths, to pray for resignation, and for death to put an end
to tortures which were fast becoming too terrible to bear. So the bright
hours of daylight rolled over them unheeded, and the dark night came
on—that season of repose and quiet, season of respite from all cares,
relief from every wo—yet brought it no repose, no respite to the
mourners of that city! The groans of manly agony, blent with the
wailings of expiring infancy, and the faint sobs of women, suppressing
their own agonies lest they should rend the hearts of others, went up
that livelong night to Heaven; and there were humble prayers breathed
out from penitent Christian bosoms; and there were wild, impatient,
fierce ejaculations, which those who uttered them _called_ prayer; and
there were desperate blasphemies and curses, such as fiends howl out
against the throne of grace, too fearful to be written!

In a low chamber of a lonely dwelling, close to the outposts of the
enemy—looking down, indeed, upon the glacis and the dry moat of the
town—there sat an aged man, shivering above the last expiring embers of
his last brand—it was the last small fragment of the door, that dying
brand! All else, the floor, the furniture, the casements, had been
consumed already. Upon the hearth, beside the embers, there stood a mug
of water, and a large dish, covered with thrice gnawed bones, part of a
horse’s ribs, clean picked and broken, so as to reach the marrow. He was
a tall and stately figure, was that aged man, and he had been strong,
sinewy and vigorous even in his old age; but now his form was bent and
all his limbs contracted; the skin, yellow as parchment, was drawn tight
across his withered brow; his nose was terribly, unnaturally sharpened,
like the nose of a corpse; his eye was dim and lustreless; his ashy lips
were glued together with a thin frothy slaver. Yet he had fought that
morning in a fierce skirmish, which had well-nigh brought in a drove of
cattle, and had been only driven back by a charge of the ironsides, a
troop of which, commanded, too, by his own son, had fallen upon their
flank, and borne them back into the town when confident of victory and
full of high anticipation.

His corslet and buff coat were not yet laid aside; his plumed hat was
cast listlessly beside him on the ground, but his blue baldric still
sustained his rapier, spotted with many blood gouts, and, in the buff
belt round his waist, his pistols, with the hammers down and the pans
black with smoke, showed that he had not removed them since he had
thrust them back into his girdle, just fired in the heat of action.
There he sat, with his hands clenched and his teeth hard set, _silent_,
yet cursing in his heart that recreant son, whom he had never
forgiven—no! never for one moment’s space!—that he had joined the
Parliament against the King, and on whose head he now invoked the direst
of calamities, that, by his too successful charge, he had cut off the
last relief from that sad starving city.

Suddenly a faint sound fell on his ear, as of one clambering up the
glacis. The old man listened, acutely, breathlessly, as though life were
dependant on his sense of hearing!—again it came, clearer and louder,
_nearer_ than before. Sword in hand, on the instant the veteran sprang
to the narrow casement which overlooked the moat and glacis, and there,
scarce three feet from the window, in the steel cap and corslet, the
scarlet cassock and unshapely boots of Cromwell’s Ironsides, stood a
tall, slender figure. The moon, which was dimly wading through the
uncertain clouds, feebly defined the outlines of his form, and half
revealed, as the old man fancied, the shapes and weapons of a score or
two of his fanatical companions in the dark hollow of the moat below
him.

“Treason—to arms—ho! treason!”—shouted the wretched father, at the
utmost pitch of his querulous attenuated voice; but ere he had well
syllabled the words, a faint and well-remembered sound responded to his
high pitched clamor.

“Hist!—Father,”—it said—“Father—it is I—I have brought hither food
and wine, at great risk of my life—approach, quick! quick! and take
them; I will return to-morrow and crave thy blessing!”

“Out on thee! Dog and traitor—die in thy treason, and thy gifts perish
with thee!—Ho! treason! to arms! treason!”

And now the cry reached wakeful ears, and was again repeated and
again—“Ho! treason! to arms! treason!”—and lights were seen flashing
along the ramparts, and trumpets were blown through the streets, and
sentinels were heard continually challenging, and hasty footsteps, and
the clash of arms, drew nearer every moment; and still that aged man,
implacable, and steeled against his son by bitter hate, shouted, “to
arms! to arms!” and called the hue and cry that way with frantic energy.

“I will not be so balked—thou wilt repent this, father,” said the young
man, advancing nearer.

“Pray God I live to see thee hanged; I will repent this never!—approach
me not, or I will rob the hangman of his due, and with mine own hand
slay thee!”

“Thou wilt not, father,” replied the other, as he laid his hand on the
casement, and reaching into the chamber, set down upon the floor a small
rush basket, and a tall flask of wine,—“thou wilt not, father—seeing
that I have risked my life to bring thee meat and wine. I knew not, till
to-day, that thou wert in this lamentable town!”

At first the old man listened, and seemed even somewhat mollified, but
as his son alluded to the situation of the town, all his old rage
returned, and with the words, “die dog!” he lunged full at his heart
with his drawn rapier—the blow took effect, full on the polished
corslet, and glanced off, inflicting a deep wound on his left arm, and
hurling him to the ground.

“Ha! have I slain thee?—Ha! so perish all the enemies of good king
Charles!”

“Praised be God,” replied the Puritan, “praised be God, _that_ sin is
spared to thee—farewell!”

“Ho! guard—this way,” shouted the veteran, now more incensed than ever,
“ho! guard—this way!”

And with their arquebusses lowered, and their slow-matches lighted, a
party of the night-watch rushed in from the street—the ruthless father
pointed them to the figure of his flying son, and a quick volley
followed—another—and another!—and all along the ramparts, from every
battlement and crenelle, the sharp, clear flashes of the random
musquetry streamed out into the midnight darkness—and the loud rattle
of the shots startled the sentinels of Lilburne on their posts, and set
the outposts and picquets on the alert throughout the whole of the
beleaguering hosts.

Escaping from the random volleys, the young man hurried to his quarters;
but ere he reached them, he was met by the grand rounds, interrogated,
seized, dragged to head-quarters, tried for communicating with the enemy
by a drum-head court-martial, and sentenced to be hanged upon the
morrow, between the glacis and the lines—before two hours had passed.
Meantime the old man _fed_—_coolly fed_ on the meat, and quaffed the
wine his child—his betrayed child—had brought to him—then mocked the
throne of mercy with a prayer, and lay down, and slept soundly—while
that same child, watched in a military dungeon, and prayed for mercy to
his soul, which must be with its God, to-morrow.

The morrow dawned, and the accursed gallows stood there erect between
the glacis and the lines—and the death-drums were beating through the
camp—and the Parliamentarians mustered to punishment parade, with their
war weapons trailed, and their grim visages suffused with more than
their accustomed gloom.

The fearful tale was known—at once, almost instinctively it was
revealed—all means were taken, and all methods tried to preserve the
victim son—threats of retaliation—proffers of
terms—entreaties—ransom—bribes—but all were tried in vain.

In the full blaze of noon, before the besieged town, before the
besieging army, before men, angels, God—the son died on the gallows
tree, victim of filial piety—martyr to military discipline—and the old
ruthless man, who had consigned his own child to that fearful doom,
looked on, and strove to smile, and would have braved it out even to the
end—but the offended majesty of nature stood forth in its dread
might!—the fierce revulsion of conflicting passions conquered the
wretched clay!—with the sneer on his lip, and the bold evil words upon
his tongue—he staggered—fell!—they lifted him, but he was dead.

That night, a courier with a white flag paused at the outposts of the
Roundheads. It was a messenger from Charles, licensing his commander to
surrender his good and faithful town of Knaresborough—and the next day
the garrison marched out with colors flying and drums beating, and all
the honors of war granted them,—and filed in their superb array beneath
the gibbet and the corpse of him who died a felon’s death, for succoring
a father at his need!—Ho! the morality of warfare! The glory of the
victor!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    O, SAY, DO I NA’ LO’E YE LASSIE.


    O, say, do I na’ lo’e ye, lassie?
      O, say, do I na’ lo’e ye well?
    Aye! mair than tongue can utter, lassie,
      Or mair than tender looks can tell.
    Ye’re i’ my dreams by night, my lassie,
      An’ ye are i’ my thoughts by day,
    An’ ye’re the beacon star, my lassie.
      That guides me through life’s troubled way.

    I lo’e ye for those tresses, lassie,
      That i’ bright jetty masses flow;
    I lo’e ye for that bosom, lassie,
      As white an’ fair as driven snow;
    I lo’e ye for those cheeks, my lassie,
      O’ sweetest tinge o’ rosy hue;
    An’ O, I lo’e ye, dearest lassie,
      For those twa cannie e’en o’ blue.

    I lo’e ye for that form, my lassie,
      Like to the deer’s, sae fit’ o’ grace;
    I lo’e ye for that smile, my lassie,
      That plays across thy charming face.
    But what I lo’e still more, my lassie,
      Is that which is worth mair to gain:
    It is the bonnie min’, my lassie,
      Which i’ gude truth ye ca’ your ain.

                                   S.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                AUZELLA.


                    A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS.


“Absolution, father, for breath is fleeting fast,” cried the dying man,
in a scarce audible voice. As the monk approached the bed, the sick man
started from his pillow, and, with clenched hands and straining eyes,
uttered, in a low, sepulchral tone, “Avaunt! avaunt, thou damning fiend!
thine hour is not yet come. Oh, mercy! mercy!” His bosom heaved
convulsively, the dew of agony gathered thick upon his brow, and, with a
beseeching look, he pointed to the crucifix on the wall.

“Confession alone can save you, my son. While there is yet time, relieve
your bosom of its load of sin, and seek for pardon.”

“_Too late!_ oh, lost forever! The hour approaches; come near.” Drawing
from under his pillow a parchment, he placed it in the hands of the
monk. “My confession, father; _now_, now, sign me with the cross.”
Uttering a wild cry of anguish, the dying man, with desperate energy,
flung himself towards the monk, and attempted to grasp the symbol of
salvation. . . . . . A vivid, lurid gleam, followed by an astounding
crash, mingled with horrid yells and piercing screams! When the monk was
found by a lay brother, he still breathed, but unconscious of external
objects, from which state he never recovered; the bed was empty, and the
bedclothes lay in wild disorder, as if torn by a mighty struggle. In the
hand of the prostrate monk was found a manuscript:


                      THE CONFESSION OF THE LOST.

Upon the confines of the Hartz Mountains, in a lowly hut, I first saw
the light. My mother yielded up her life in giving me birth, and the
nourishment of a pet goat sustained the feeble spark of infancy. My
remaining parent proved, though rough and uncultivated, a kind nurse.
The hours of childhood were passed in assisting my father in collecting
dried wood for burning charcoal, and oft, as I penetrated through the
tangled forest, would I stand and gaze upon the clear blue flame that
night after night arose from one of the highest peaks, and though an
ague would creep over me at the recollection of some of the tales of
horror that clothed those mountains in such fearful dread, still an
unconquerable desire to witness their midnight orgies grew with my
growth and strengthened with my strength.

About two hundred feet from the base of the loftiest of that extended
chain of mountains, jutted out a perpendicular rock. Upon the summit
stood the castle of Rudolfo, whose weather-beaten battlements had for
ages frowned defiance upon the plain below. Dark hints and mysterious
whispers surrounded that isolated spot with gloom and fear; no footsteps
ever approached its portals after sundown, and an Ave Maria was
silently, though fervently breathed, when the benighted hunter or weary
traveller caught a glimpse of the solitary light that was ever seen in
one of the casements of the castle.

Count Rudolph was a man of valor; his arm was held invincible in the
battle field; but of a temperament morose and savage, his vassals
quailed beneath the glance of his bright gray eye, and trembled when the
sound of his loud clear voice rang through the vaulted halls. Among the
dependants that sat at his board below the salt, or rallied around his
banner, were hearts that thirsted to bury their daggers in his blood;
but the mantle of superstitious mystery so completely enveloped him,
that the hand, however daring, shrunk from the murderous deed.

The iron-bound features of Count Rudolph never relaxed, save when his
looks rested upon his daughter. Then would the contracted brow expand,
and those eyes so formidable emit a ray of feeling. He seldom smiled,
but the effect was startling; a meteor, dazzling by its brightness, to
render the darkness more visible. And that daughter was a glorious
creature! The tall, graceful form, the dark hazel eyes, commanded the
allegiance of all that looked upon her. To her father her features bore
a strong resemblance, but moulded in the most perfect female softness.

The lady Auzella was seldom seen beyond the boundaries of the castle,
but the report of her wondrous beauty had spread far over Germany, and
many a valiant knight had sued in vain for her fair hand,
notwithstanding the vague and strange reports that were ever afloat
about Count Rudolph and his unhallowed deeds.

It was my twentieth birthday. The hours of labor were exchanged for
hunting, a pastime of which I was most fond. So intent was I in chasing
the chamois and hungry wolves that infest those regions, I thought not
of the departure of day, until warned by the declining sun shedding its
golden rays through the “forest’s thickening gloom.” An unconquerable
feeling of dread at being thus benighted, caused me to hasten my
footsteps towards my humble cot. With a steady eye and nervous limbs, I
bounded over the impetuous stream that rolls down the mountain side, and
springing from crag to crag, I emerged from the dense shadow of trees,
and stood upon a platform of rock overgrown with moss and stunted oak.

Involuntarily I lingered to gaze upon the scene before me. The whole
country glowed with the effulgence of the setting sun, whilst the
amphitheatre of hills that bounded the horizon was clothed in gorgeous
purple. On the right stood the castle, its turrets and towers catching
the lingering sunbeams, bringing them out in bold relief from the mass
of frowning mountains that formed the back ground. The only sound that
broke upon the ear was the incessant roar of the cataract. Whilst thus I
stood entranced, a strain of music suddenly burst through the air, so
wild, so melodious, that it seemed an echo from the spheres. Amazed, I
listened breathlessly; again the same sweet notes were borne upon the
gentle gales. I turned, when lo! beside the rushing torrent sat a
female; her long tresses were floating upon the breeze, and revealed the
features of the Lady Auzella! Ere the melting strains were ended that
had held bound my soul, shrieking, affrighted, she fled towards me. With
horror I beheld a huge bear spring from the overhanging crag, and stand
within a foot of his prey. In one moment I took a sure and deadly
aim—fired—the monster rolled head-long down the rapid stream; the next
instant the fainting form of Auzella reposed within my arms! My fate was
sealed; the past, the future, all, all were forgotten. We met again and
again; I loved, ardently, madly, and was beloved! Yes! the high-born,
haughty damsel loved the humble youth.

We lived in the spring-time of love; the cold, bleak winds of autumn had
not yet chilled our hearts, when, with the impassioned fervor of
affection, I besought the gentle Auzella to fly with me to other lands,
where with my sword I would carve for myself a name worthy for her to
share. Silently she listened, then raising her head from my bosom, fixed
her expressive eyes upon me, and whispered, as soft as a zephyr’s sigh—

“Hast thou dear Carl, resolution to win fame and wealth, and, with my
father’s consent, this hand?”

“Try me, beloved, and thou wilt find no braggart in thy lover.”

“Then, by thy vows of love, ere ‘yon moon fills her horn,’ pluck from
the mountain’s blazing pile a firebrand; bear it with all speed to my
father’s feet, and by that token fearlessly claim the hand of Auzella!”

She ceased, and fled from me. In that brief space a new existence burst
upon my senses. The voice of love had pointed out the way to the
possession of _gold_ and the hand of her whom I adored; but how? To
league myself with devils! A cold shudder crept over me; within my
breast raged a fearful struggle. It passed away, and, with the purpose
of my soul determined, I awoke from the _dream_ of life to the reality
of existence.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Strange, that man should shrink in after years from lifting the veil
that has shadowed crimes recklessly committed in youth. Does he scorn
and bid defiance to the eyes of Omnipotence, and tremble at the opinions
of his fellow worms? How incongruous, but alas! how true!

Although years have rolled past—and time, as it has flown onward, has
hurried with them into the vast abyss of eternity, pleasures, sins and
sorrows—the events of that _fearful_ night, that fatal hour, are
concentrated in one burning spot within my brain.

Like king Midas, the cravings of discontent proved my destruction.
Destruction! aye, one endless chain of wretchedness, perpetuated through
life, with no oblivion in the _grave_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

With desperate energy I braved the lightning’s lurid gleam, and heeded
not the tempest that raged around me. As I bent my footsteps towards the
ever-burning flame, sounds, as if from the abyss of Hades, burst upon my
ear. I stood palsied with horror, and as a bright flash burst through
the gloom, shrieks and wild laughter rang through the air, and revealed
my presence! “Ah! standest thou there to mock me, thou fiend, thou
devil? Hurl not reason _yet_ from its tottering throne! Begone!”

The hour was past, the trophy _gained_, my bride _won_; but an _oath_
was taken that is engraved upon my heart with a firebrand, and ever
thrills my frame with anguish—with never-ceasing torture!

How shall I unravel the tangled thread of my after life? Shall I dwell
upon the hour that called Auzella _mine_?—the joy I felt as I clasped
my beautiful, my adored _wife_ to my heart, notwithstanding the dark
flash from Count Rudolph’s eyes? A brief state of happiness was mine—an
oasis in the wilderness of life.

I _now_ had gold unbounded. We left the frowning castle for the gay
metropolis. The mountain boy was no longer the shy boor, but the wealthy
_noble_ and the crafty man.

Once launched upon the ocean of dissipation, I trimmed my sails to catch
the breeze of pleasure, and thought not of the whirlpools that
surrounded me; when, one night, in the midst of a gay revel, whilst the
sparkling cup and the merry jest passed freely round the festive board,
a touch of _fire_, a whisper which penetrated my very soul, reminded me
of my _oath_—that _fearful oath_! Then fled the scene of enchantment,
the faces of beauty, the chrystal lights, and the music, breathing its
soft strains through the fragrant air; and, in the mind’s eye, the
burning mountain, the horrid yells of demoniacal laughter, were beheld
with frightful distinctness.

                 *        *        *        *        *

_Murder my friend!_—the companion of my midnight revels, the sharer of
my pleasures—_never!_ But thine oath! Ah! then did I feel the serpent’s
sting; his envenomed coil compressed every fibre of my defenceless body;
no escape from his toils. I had voluntarily _sold myself_ to the demon
of the burning mountain!

Out upon it! why quakes this feeble frame as the hour approaches when I
shall “throw off this mortal coil?” Can tortures be greater than what I
do and _ever will_ suffer? Why not snap asunder the cord at once?

But the deed was _done_, and _then_ deeper did I plunge into the vortex
of vice, for the slight barrier of conscience was broken down, and I
moved through the gazing crowd an envied man. Ah, ah, envied! How little
dreamed the gaping fools of the livid spot _within_. But, amidst the
volcano that was consuming me, burned one pure flame—the shrine on
which it was kindled was still unpolluted—my love for Auzella. She was
my day-star, my dream of all that was pure. Her smile would chase the
demon from my breast, and lull me into forgetfulness.

But the cup of misery that I had tasted was not yet drained. Jealousy
mingled with its bitter dregs, and poisoned my blood and shot through
every vein.

Suddenly there appeared among us a youth of striking mien and of great
beauty, though of a wild and singular aspect. He was ever with Auzella!
I chased from my breast the dark thoughts that would sometimes enter.
With the madness of despair, I bore her to the gloomy castle where dwelt
her father. She murmured not at thus being torn from scenes of festive
mirth to hours of dreary sadness; her eyes still sparkled with their
wonted fire. We visited the spot where first I dared breathe my aspiring
hopes, and as I folded her to my breast again, I told her how dear she
still was to me.

Count Rudolph had become more morose, and seldom went beyond the castle
walls. He seemed to take no pleasure in the presence of his child, and
when I encountered the glance of his eye fixed upon me, a strange,
undefinable sensation would creep over me: a vague recollection of
scenes gone by. Thus passed four long, weary weeks. For me were no
dreams of the future, no surveying of the past; all, all was a chaos of
guilt and dread.

Twice, in the still hour of midnight, did I miss Auzella from my side.
At first I heeded it not, but as thought pressed upon thought, my brain
became maddened; horrible suspicions crept over me. Grasping my pistols,
I fled from the castle, and, without one definite object, I strode
hastily towards _that_ fatal spot. The same wild yells met my ear, and,
by the clear blue flame, I beheld a scene of sickening horror!—while I
think upon it, my brain becomes frenzied—but I must relieve the
tortures of this breast by tracing my sum of misery.

Aye! I beheld a motley group sitting around the fire, who, with shouts
of laughter and demoniacal gestures, were tearing asunder a human frame,
a fresh victim! There was a pause, when a voice arose upon the stillness
that sent my blood curdling to my heart; I looked, and saw _my wife_,
and by her side that stranger youth! Slowly I moved my hand towards my
pistol, and, setting my teeth, grasped it firmly. Another voice rang
through the air, and there sat Count Rudolph, the demon of the burning
mountain; well did I remember, by that light, those unhallowed eyes and
_that smile_. The glance was but momentary, for revenge was heaving my
bosom almost to bursting. There sat the only object on earth that was
dear to me; for _her_ I had bartered my _soul_, and there she was, in
seeming fellowship with devils. Ages of misery were crowded in that
moment. She turned, and smiled upon the beardless boy. Nature could
endure no longer—I fired! Loud yells and horrid imprecations mingled
with the thunder’s roar; one fierce scream was borne upon the blast,
and, from the spot where sat Auzella, up rose a _vulture_! For a moment
she hovered near me; I saw the crimson blood stream from its breast, and
casting a look upon me, (which, by day and night, haunts the deepest
spot in memory’s waste,) flapped her broad wings, and was soon lost in
the impenetrable gloom.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Darkness fell upon me; reason was lost amid the breakers of despair. A
wreck, deserted by Hope, within my heart is the torch of anguish,
kindled at the funeral pile of Vice.

                                                                   E.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THOUGHTS IN SPRING.


                           BY HENRY B. HIRST.


    It is the spring time. Varied flowers are sending
      Their new-born odors on the sighing breeze,
    The sun its brightness from the sky is lending,
      Flinging its kisses to the budding trees,
    And Nature, lovely Nature fair doth seem,
    As the creation of a poet’s dream.

    The robin’s mellow strain in wild notes gushes
      From the snow blossoms of the apple tree;
    The cat-bird’s scolding from the leafy bushes,
      The wren’s low music thrilling comes to me,
    Seeming the hymns of Nature freely given,
    As stainless offerings of its praise to Heaven.

    Earth is a sea of verdure. Blossoms springing
      All gem-like dewy from the velvet sod,
    Like whispered melody their perfume flinging,
      Earth’s altar’d incense rising up to God,—
    Whose word I read in there as in his book,
    When e’er their beauties meet my eager look.

    Thro’ laughing verdure silvery is straying,
      Reflecting, mirror-like, the pure calm sky,
    A babbling stream, o’er rock and lichen playing,
      Sweet as the softness of a loved one’s sigh—
    Floating along with harmony as rife
    As pass the hours in some bright day of life.

    The river far away is calmly stealing,
      Thro’ its green banks all glittering with light,
    Like beaming fancies in the poet’s feeling,
      Who worships ever all that’s fair and bright;
    Creating images that living start
    Warm from the gushings of his burning heart.

    Yes! this is spring time, mild and glorious spring,
      When earth is like a paradise, and gay
    With birds, and buds, and flowers, and everything,
      Whose beauties serve to gild awhile life’s clay.
    Bidding hearts revel in enjoyment wild,
    Making one happy even as a child.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       SCHOOL-BOY RECOLLECTIONS.


             A FROLIC AMONG THE LAWYERS.—A SCENE FROM LIFE.


           BY T. W. THOMAS, AUTHOR OF “HOWARD PINCKNEY,” ETC.


I was born in New Orleans. I had very bad health there in my early
childhood, and “My Aunt Betsey,” of whom I have before spoken, took a
voyage by sea from Baltimore to the “crescent city,” for the purpose of
returning with me to a climate which the physicians had said would
strengthen my constitution.

She brought me up with the greatest kindness, or rather, I should say
she kept me comparatively feeble by her over-care of my health. When I
was about fourteen years of age, my father brought my mother and my
little sister Virginia on from New Orleans to see me. My meeting with my
kind mother I shall never forget. She held me at arms’ length for an
instant, to see if she could recognise, in the chubby, healthy boy
before her, the puny, sickly child with whom she had parted with such
fond regret on board the Carolina, but a few years before; and when, in
memory and in heart, she recognized each lineament, she clasped me to
her bosom with a wild hysteric joy which compensated her, more than
compensated her, she said, for all the agony which our separation had
caused her. I loved my mother devotedly, yet I wondered at the emotion
which she exhibited at our meeting, and, child though I was, a sense of
unworthiness came over me, possibly because my affections could not
sound the depths of hers.

My father’s recognition was kinder than I had expected, from what I
remembered of our parting in New Orleans. He felt prouder of me than at
our parting, I presume, from my improved health and looks, and this made
him feel that my being tied to the apron strings of my good old aunt
would not improve my manliness. A gentleman whom he had met at a dinner
party, who was the principal of an academy, a kind of miniature college,
some thirty miles from Baltimore, had impressed my father, by his
disquisitions, with a profound respect for such a mode of education.

“William,” said my father, in speaking on the subject to Mr. Stetson,
“will be better there than here among the women; he’ll be a baby forever
here. No, I must make a man of him. I shall take him next week with me,
and leave him in the charge of Mr. Sears.” My mother insisted upon it
that I should stay awhile longer, that she might enjoy my society, and
that my sister and myself might become attached to each other ere they
returned to New Orleans. But my father said, “No, my dear; you know it
was always agreed between us that you should bring up Virginia as you
pleased, and that I would bring up William as I pleased.”

“Let us take him, then, back to New Orleans,” exclaimed my mother; “he
is healthy enough now.”

“But he would not be healthy long there, my dear. No, I have made
inquiry: Mr. Sears is an admirable man, and under his care, which I am
satisfied will be paternal, William will improve in mind, and learn to
be a man—will you not, William?”

I could only cling to my mother without reply.

“There,” exclaimed my father, exultingly, “you see the effect of his
education thus far.”

“The effect of his education thus far!” retorted my aunt Betsey, who did
not relish my father’s remark; “he has been taught to say his prayers,
and to love his parents and tell the truth. You see the effects in him
now,” and she pointed to me, seated on a stool by my mother.

All this made no impression upon my father. He was resolved that I
should go to Belle Air, the county town, situated twenty-five miles from
Baltimore, where the school was, the next week, and he so expressed
himself decidedly.

The condemned criminal, who counts the hours that speed to his
execution, scarcely feels more horror at the rush of time than did I.
One appalling _now_ seemed to possess me. I was deeply sensitive, and
the dread of my loneliness away from all I loved, and the fear of the
ridicule and tyranny of the oldsters, haunted me so that I could not
sleep, and I have lain awake all night, picturing to myself what would
be the misery of my situation at Belle Air. In fact, when the day
arrived, I bade my mother, aunt Betsey and my little sister Virginia
farewell with scarcely a consciousness, and was placed in the gig by my
father as the stunned criminal is assisted into the fatal cart.

This over-sensitiveness—what a curse it is! I lay no claims to genius,
and yet I have often thought it hard that I should have the quality
which makes the “fatal gift” so dangerous, and not the gift. My little
sister Virginia, who had been my playmate for weeks, cried bitterly when
I left her. I dwelt upon her swimming eye with mine, tearless and stony
as death. The waters of bitterness had gathered around my heart, but had
not yet found an outlet from their icy thrall, ’neath which they flowed
dark and deep.

Belle Air, at the time I write of, was a little village of some
twenty-five or more houses, six of which were taverns. It was and is a
county town, and court was regularly held there, to which the Baltimore
lawyers used to flock in crowds; and many mad pranks have I known them
play there for their own amusement, if not for the edification of the
pupils of Mr. Sears.

My father drew up at Mr. Kenny’s tavern, and as it was about twelve when
we arrived, and the pupils were dismissed to dinner, he sent his card to
the principal, who in a few minutes made his appearance. Talk of a lover
watching the movements and having impressed upon his memory the image of
her whom he loveth!—the schoolboy has a much more vivid recollection of
his teacher. Mr. Sears was a tall, stout man, with broad stooping
shoulders, he carried a large cane, and his step was as decided as ever
was Doctor Busby’s, who would not take his hat off when the king visited
his school, for the reason, as he told his majesty afterwards, that if
his scholars thought that there was a greater man in the kingdom than
himself, he never could control them. The face of Mr. Sears resembled
much the likeness of Alexander Hamilton, though his features were more
contracted, and his forehead had nothing like the expansion of the great
statesman; yet it projected very similarly at the brows. He welcomed my
father to the village with great courtesy, and me to his pupilage with
greater dignity. He dined with my father, with me by his side, and every
now and then he would pat me on the head and ask me a question. I
stammered out monosyllabic answers, when the gentleman would address
himself again to his plate with renewed gusto.

Mr. Sears recommended my father to board me at the house of a Mr. Hall,
who had formerly been the sheriff of the county, and whose wife and
daughters, he said, were very fine women. He repented, he said, when he
first took charge of the academy, that there was not some general place
attached to it where the pupils could board in common, but after
reflection had taught him that to board them about among the
towns-people would be as well. He remarked that I was one of his
smallest pupils, but that he could look on me _in loco parentis_, and
doubted not that he could make a man of me.

After dinner he escorted my father, leading me by the hand, down to the
academy, which was on the outskirts of the town, at the other end of it
from Mr. Kenny’s. The buzz, which the usher had not the power to control
in the absence of Mr. Sears, hushed instantly in his presence, and as he
entered with my father, the pupils all arose, and remained standing
until he ordered them to be seated. Giving my father a seat, and placing
me in the one which he designed for me in the school, Mr. Sears called
several of his most proficient scholars in the different classes, from
Homer down to the elements of English, and examined them. When a boy
blundered, he darted at him a look which made him shake in his shoes,
and when another boy gave a correct answer and took his fellow’s place,
and glanced up for Mr. Sears’ smile, it was a picture which my friend
Beard, of Cincinnati, would delight to draw. The blunderer looked like
one caught in the act of sheep-stealing, while the successful pupil took
his place with an air that would have marked one of Napoleon’s doubtful
soldiers, when the Emperor had witnessed an act of daring on his part.
As for Mr. Sears, he thought Napoleon a common creature to himself. To
kill men, he used to say, was much more easy than to instruct them, he
felt himself to be like one of the philosophers of old in his academy;
and he considered Doctor Parr and Doctor Busby, who boasted that they
had whipped every distinguished man in the country, much greater than he
of Pharsalia or he of Austerlitz.

When the rehearsal of several classes had given my father a due
impression of Mr. Sears’ great gifts as an instructor, and of his
scholars’ proficiency, he took my father to Mr. Hall’s, to introduce us
to my future host.

We found the family seated in the long room in which their boarders
dined. To Mr. Sears they paid the most profound respect. Well they
might, for without his recommendation they would have been without
boarders. Hall was a tall, good humored, careless man. His wife was
older than himself, tall too, but full of energy. He had two daughters,
Harriet and Jane. Harriet was a quick, active, lively girl, and withal
pretty, while Jane was lolling and lazy in her motions, and without
either good looks or prettiness. The matter of my boarding was soon
arranged, and it had become time for my father to depart. All this while
the variety and excitement of the scene had somewhat relieved my
feelings, but when my father bade me be a good boy and drove off, I felt
as if the “last link” was indeed broken, and though I made every effort,
from a sense of shame, to repress my tears, it was in vain, and they
broke forth the wilder from their previous restraint. Harriet Hall came
up instantly to comfort me. She took a seat beside me at the open window
at which I was looking out after my father, and with a sweet voice,
whose tones are in my memory yet, she told me not to grieve because I
was from my friends; that I should soon see them again, and that she
would think I feared they would not be kind to me if I showed so much
sorrow. This last remark touched me, and while I was drying my eyes, one
of the larger boys, a youth of eighteen or twenty, came up to the
window—for the academy by this time had been dismissed for the
evening—and said,

“Ah, Miss Harriet, is this another baby who is crying for home?”

In an instant my eyes were dried. I cast one glance at the speaker—he
was a tall, slim, reckless looking fellow, named Prettyman—and from
that day to this I have neither forgotten it, nor, I fear, forgiven him.

In the night, when we retired to our rooms, I found that my bed was in a
room with two others, Prettyman and a country bumpkin, by the name of
Muzzy. As usual on going to bed, I kneeled down to say my prayers,
putting my hands up in the attitude of supplication. I had scarcely
uttered to myself the first words, “Our Father,” but to the ear that
heareth all things, when Prettyman exclaimed—

“He’s praying! ‘By the Apostle Paul!’ as Richard the Third says, that’s
against rules. Suppose we cob him, Muzzy?” Muzzy laughed, and got into
bed; and I am ashamed to say that I arose with the prayer dying away
from my thoughts, and indignation and shame usurping them, and sneaked
into bed, where I said my prayers in silence, and wept myself in silence
to sleep. In the morning, with a heavy heart, and none but the kind
Harriet to comfort me, I betook myself to the academy.

Parents little know what a sensitive child suffers at a public school. I
verily believe that these schools engender often more treachery,
falsehood and cruelty than exists in West India slavery; I was about
saying even in the brains of an abolitionist. Most tenderly nurtured,
under the care of an affectionate old aunt, who was always fixing my
clothes to keep me warm, coddling up something nice to pamper me with,
watching all my outgoings and incomings, and seeing that everything
around me conduced to my convenience and comfort, the contrast was
indeed great when I appeared at the Belle Air academy, one of the
smallest boys there, and subjected to the taunts and buffetings of every
larger boy than myself in the institution. My father little knew what
agony it cost me to be made a man of.

I am not certain that the good produced by such academies is equal to
their evils. I remember well for two or three nights after Prettyman
laughed at me, that I crept into bed to say my prayers, and, at last,
under his ridicule—for he practised his gift on me every night—I not
only neglected to say them, but began to feel angry towards my aunt that
she had ever learned them to me, as they brought so much contempt upon
me. Yet, such is the power of conscience, at that tender age, that, when
I awoke in the morning of the first night that I had not prayed, I felt
myself guilty and unworthy, and went into the garden and wept aloud,
tears of sincere contrition.

Too often, in public schools, the first thing a youth learns from his
elders, is to laugh at parental authority, and to exhibit to the
ridicule of his fellows the letter of advice which his parent or
guardian feels it his duty to write to him, taking care, with a jest
upon them, to pocket the money they send, with an air of incipient
profligacy which, any one may see, will soon not only be rank but
prurient—such a moral contagion should be avoided, and, I therefore am
inclined to think that the Catholic mode of tuition, where some one of
the teachers is with the scholars, not only by day but by night, is
preferable. And, in fact, any one who has witnessed the respectful
familiarity they teach their pupils to feel and act towards them, and
the kindness with which they return it, cannot but be impressed with the
truth of my remark.

There were nearly one hundred pupils at Belle Air, at the period of
which I write, and the only assistant Mr. Sears had, was a gaunt fellow
named Dogberry. Like his illustrious namesake in Shakspeare, from whom I
believe he was a legitimate descendant, he might truly have been
“_written down an ass_.”

The boys invented all sorts of annoyances to torture Dogberry withal. A
favorite one was, when Mr. Sears was in the city, which was at periods
not unfrequent, for them to assemble in the school before Dogberry came,
and setting one by the door to give notice when the usher was within a
few feet of it, to begin as soon as he appeared in sight, to shout, as
with one voice—first _Dog_, and then, after a pause, by way of a
chorus, _berry_.

As soon as notice was given by the watcher, he leaped to his seat, and
every tongue was silent, and every eye upon the book before it. The rage
of Dogberry knew no bounds on these occasions. He did not like to tell
the principal, for the circumstance would have proved not only his want
of authority over the boys, but the contempt in which they held him.

A trick which Prettyman played him, nearly caused his death, and,
luckily for the delinquent, he was never discovered. Dogberry was very
penurious, and he saved two-thirds of his salary; as it was not large,
he had, of course, to live humbly. He dined at Halls and took breakfast
and supper in his lodgings, if he ever took them, and the quality of the
dinner of which he made himself the receptacle, caused it to be doubted.
His lodgings were the _dormant_ story of a log cabin, to which he had
entrance by a rough flight of stairs without the house and against its
side. Under the stairs there was a large mud-hole, and Prettyman
contrived one gusty night to pull them down, with the intention of
calling the usher in the tone of Mr. Sears, for he was a good mimic, and
causing him to fall in the mud. Unluckily, the usher heard the racket
without, and not dreaming it was the fall of the stairs, he leaped from
his bed, and hurried out to see what it was. He fell on them, and though
no bones were broken, he was laid up for several weeks. The wind always
had the credit of the affair, and Prettyman won great applause for his
speedy assistance and sympathy with Dogberry, whom he visited constantly
during his confinement.

The night of the adjournment of court, the lawyers, and even the judges,
had what they called a regular frolic. Mr. Sears was in Baltimore, and
the scholars were easily induced to join in it—in fact they wanted no
inducement. About twelve o’clock at night we were aroused from our beds
by a most awful yelling for the ex-sheriff. “Hall, Hall,” was the
cry—soon the door was opened, and the trampling of feet was heard—in a
minute the frolickers ascended the stairs, and one of the judges, with a
blanket wrapped round him, like an Indian, with his face painted, and a
red handkerchief tied round his head, and with red slippers on, entered
our room, with a candle in one hand and a bottle in the other; and,
after making us drink all round, bade us get up. We were nothing loath.
On descending into the dining-room, lo! there were the whole bar,
dressed off in the most fantastic style, and some of them scarcely
dressed at all. They were mad with fun and wine. The ex-sheriff brought
forth his liquors, and was placed on his own table as a culprit, and
tried and found guilty of not having been, as in duty bound, one of the
originators of the frolic. He was, therefore, fined glasses round for
the company, and ordered by the judges to pay it at Richardson’s bar. To
Richardson’s the order was given to repair. Accordingly, without they
formed a line, Indian file. Two large black women carried a light in
each hand beside the first judge, and two smaller black women carried a
light in the right hand beside the next one. The lawyers followed, each
with a light in his hand, and the procession closed with the scholars,
who each also bore a light. I, being smallest, brought up the rear.
There was neither man nor boy who was not more or less inebriated, and
the wildest pranks were played.

When we reached Dogberry’s domicile, one of the boys proposed to have
him out with us. The question was put by one of the judges and carried
by acclamation unanimously. It was further resolved, that a deputation
of three, each bearing a bottle of different liquor, should be appointed
to wait on him, with the request that he would visit the Pawnee tribe,
from the far west, drink some fire-water with them, and smoke the pipe
of peace.

Prettyman, whose recklessness knew no bounds, and who, as I suppose,
wished to involve me in difficulty, moved that the smallest and tallest
person in the council be of that deputation. There happened to be a
quantity of logs, which had been gathered there for the purpose of
building a log house. Mr. Patterson (I use here a fictitious name) was
at this time the great lawyer of Maryland. He was dressed in a splendid
Indian costume, which a western client had given him, and he had painted
himself with care and taste. He was a fine looking man, and stretching
out his hand, he exclaimed:

“Brothers, be seated; but not on the prostrate forms of the forest,
which the ruthless white man has felled to make unto himself a
habitation. Like the big warrior Tecumseh, in council with the great
white chief Harrison, we will sit upon the lap of our mother the
earth—upon her breast we will sleep—the Pawnee has no roof but the
blue sky, where dwelleth the Great Spirit—and he looks up to the
shining stars, and they look down upon him—and they count the leaves of
the forest and know the might of the Pawnees.”

Every one, by this time, had taken a seat upon the ground, and all were
silent. As the lights flashed o’er the group, they formed as grotesque a
scene as I have ever witnessed.

“Brothers,” he continued, “those eyes of the Great Spirit,” pointing
upwards to the stars, “behold the rushing river, and they say to our
fathers, who are in the happy hunting grounds of the blest, that, like
it, is the might of the Pawnee when he rushes to battle. The white men
are dogs—their carcasses drift in the tide—they are cast out on the
shore, and the prairie-wolf fattens on them.

“Brothers—the eyes of the Great Spirit behold the prairies and the
forest, where the breath of the wintry wind bears the red fire through
them—where the prairie-wolf flies, and the fire flies faster. Brothers,
the white man is the prairie-wolf, and the Pawnee is the fire.

“Brothers—when the forked fire from the right arm of the Great Spirit
smites the mountain’s brow, the eagle soars upwards to his home in the
clouds, but the snake crawls over the bare rock in the blast, and hides
in the clefts and in the hollows and holes. Behold! the forked fire
strikes the rock and scatters it as the big warrior would throw pebbles
from his hand, and the soaring eagle darts from the clouds and the
death-rattle of the snake is heard, and he hisses no more.

“Brothers—the Pawnee is the eagle, the bird of the Great Spirit, and
the white man is the crawling snake that the Great Spirit hates.

“Brothers—the shining eyes of the Great Spirit sees all these things,
and tells them to our fathers, who are in the happy hunting ground of
the blest, and they say that some day, wrapped in the clouds, they will
come and see us, for our land is like theirs.”

This was said with so much eloquence, by the distinguished lawyer, that
there was the silence of nearly a minute when he concluded. In the
company was a lawyer named Short, who, strange to say, was just six feet
three inches and a half high, and he had a client—which is stranger
still—named Long, who was but five feet high.

“Who has precedence, Judge Willard?” called out somebody in the crowd,
breaking in upon the business of the occasion, as upon such occasions
business always will be broken in upon—“who has precedence, Long or
Short?”

“Long,” exclaimed the judge, “of course. It is a settled rule in law,
that you must take as much land as is called for in the deed—therefore
Long takes precedence of Short. May be, Short has a remedy in equity;
but this court has nothing to do with that—so you have the _long_ and
the _short_ of the matter.”

“Judge,” cried out the ex-sheriff, “we must go to Richardson’s—you know
it is my treat.”

“The Pawnee—the eagle of his race,”—exclaimed Patterson, “the prophet
of his tribe; he who is more than warrior—whose tongue is clothed with
the Great Spirit’s thunder—who can speak with the eloquence of the
spring air when it whispers amidst the leaves and makes the flowers open
and give forth their sweets—he, the Charming Serpent, that hath a
tongue forked with persuasion—he, even he, will go in to the white man,
and invite him to come forth and taste the fire-water, and smoke the
pipe of peace with the Pawnee. Then, if he comes not forth when the
charming serpent takes him by the hand, and bids him, the Pawnees shall
smoke him out like a fox, and his blazing habitation shall make night
pale, and there shall be no resting place for his foot, and children and
squaws shall whip him into the forest, and set the dogs upon his trail,
and he shall be hunted from hill to hill, from river to river, from
prairie to prairie, from forest to forest, till, like the frightened
deer, he rushes, panting, into the great lakes, and the waters rise over
him, and cover him from the Pawnees’ scorn.”

This was received with acclamation. Mr. Patterson played the Indian so
well, that he drew me one of the closest to him, in the charmed circle
that surrounded him. His eye flashed, his lips quivered with fiery
ardor, though at the mimic scene. I was so lost in admiration of him,
that I placed myself beside him without knowing it. He saw the effect he
had produced upon me, and was evidently gratified. Taking me by the
hand, he said:

“Warriors and braves, give unto me the brand, that the Charming Serpent
may light the steps of the boy to the hiding-place of the pale-face. He
shall listen to the eloquence of the Charming Serpent when he takes the
white man by the hand—he shall learn how to move alike the heart of the
pale-face and the red man.

“Brothers—the Charming Serpent to-night,” said he, handing me the
candle, and placing himself in an oratorial attitude, while every man
lifted up his candle so that it shone full upon him,—“Brothers, the
Charming Serpent to-night could speak unto the four winds that are now
howling in the desolate Pawnee paths of the wilderness, and make them
sink into a low moan, and sigh themselves to silence, were he to tell
them of the many of his tribe who are now lying mangled, unburied, and
cold, beneath the shadow of the rocky mountains—victims of the white
man’s vengeance.

“Brothers: O! that the Great Spirit would give the Charming Serpent his
voice of thunder—then would he stand upon the highest peak of the
Alleghanies, with the forked lightning in his red right hand, and tell a
listening and heart-struck world the wrong of his race. And, when all of
every tribe of every people had come crouching in the valleys, and had
filled up the gorges of the hills, then would the Charming Serpent hurl
vengeance on the oppressor. But come,” said he, taking the candle in one
hand, and myself by the other, “the Pawnee talks like a squaw. The
Charming Serpent will speak with the pale-face, and lead him forth from
his wigwam to the great council fire.”

Accordingly, the Charming Serpent took me by the hand, and led me up the
stairs. His steps were steady, and it was evident that his libations had
excited his brain, and, instead of weakening him, given him strength.

“What’s your name?” said he to me kindly.

“William Russel, sir.”

“Do you know me, my little fellow?”

“Yes, sir, you’re Mr. Patterson, the great lawyer.”

“Ah, ah! they call me a great lawyer, do they! What else do they say?”

“That you’re the greatest orator in the country,” I replied—for what I
had drank made me bold too.

“They do—I know they do, my little fellow—I believe, in fact, that I
could have stood up in the Areopagus of old, in favor of human rights,
and faced the best of them. Yes, sir, I too could have ‘fulmined over
Greece.’ But we are not Grecians now—we are Pawnees.”

“Stop, stop, Mr. Pawnee,” called out some one from the crowd, “Short was
to go, he is the tallest man.”

“The tallest man,” re-echoed Mr. Patterson, speaking in his natural
tone. “The judge, sir, has already decided that by just legal
construction, Short is short, no matter how long he is; and, if he
claims to be long, sir, I can just inform him that Lord Bacon says ‘that
tall men are like tall houses, the upper story is the worst furnished.’”
Here, every eye was turned on Short, and there was a shout of laughter.

“If,” continued Mr. Patterson—and it was evident his potations were
doing their work—“if it be true—I’ll just say this to you, sirs.
Doctor Watts was a very small man; and, I repeat it for the benefit of
all small men—

    ‘Had I the height to reach the pole
      Or meet the ocean with my span,
    I would be measured by my soul—
      The mind’s the standard of the man.’

“There, gentlemen of the jury; if that be true, I opine that the tallest
man in the crowd is now addressing you. But, I forget. I am a Pawnee.

“Brothers: The tall grass of the prairies is swept by the fire, while
the flint endureth the hot flames of the stake. The loftiest trees of
the forest snap like a reed in the whirlwind, and the bird that builds
there leaves her eggs unhatched. The highest peak of the mountain is
always the bleakest and barest—in the valley are the sweet waters and
the pleasant. Damn it,” said he, speaking in his proper person, for he
began to forget his personation, “why do we value the gem—

    ‘Ask why God made the gem so small,
      And why so huge the granite?
    Because he meant mankind should set
      The higher value on it.’

“That’s Burns—an illustrious name, gentlemen. When I was minister
abroad, I stood beside the peasant poet’s grave, and thanked God that he
had given me the faculties to appreciate him. Suppose that he had been
born in this land of ours, sirs; all we who think ourselves lights in
law and statesmanship, would have seen our stars paled—paled, sirs, as
the fire of the prairie grows dim, when the eye of the Great Spirit
looks forth from the eastern gates—damn it, that’s Ossian and not
Pawnee—upon it in its fierceness.

    ‘Thou, the bright eye of the universe,
      That openest over all, and unto all
      Art a delight—thou shinest not on my soul.’

“That’s Byron—I knew him well—handsome fellow. ‘Thou shinest not on my
soul’—no, but thou shinest on the prairie.”

“The usher—Dogberry—let’s have Dogberry,” called out several of the
students.

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Patterson; “Dogberry, ha! He’s Goldsmith’s village
teacher, that caused the wonder

    ‘That one small head could carry all he knew.’

Dogberry—Dogberry—but that sounds Shakspearian. ‘Reading and writing
comes by Nature.’ That’s certainly not his sentiments; were they, he
should throw away the usher’s rod and betake himself to something else;
for if these things come by nature, then is Dogberry’s occupation gone.
Yes, he had better betake himself to the constableship. Come, my little
friend—come, son of the Pawnee, and we will arouse the pale face.”

Stepping by the side of Mr. Patterson, we ascended to the little
platform in front of Dogberry’s door, at which we rapped three times
distinctly. “Who’s there?” cried out a voice from within. Dogberry must
of course have been awake for at least half an hour.

“Pale face,” said the Pawnee chief, “thou hast not followed the example
of the great chief of the pale faces; the string of thy latch is pulled
in. Upon my word, this is certainly the attic story,” he continued in a
low voice.

“I am not very well to-night, gentlemen, unless your business is
pressing.”

“Pressing! Pale face, the Pawnees have lit their council fire, and
invite thee to drink with them the fire-water and smoke the pipe of
peace.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, I never drink,” responded Dogberry, in an
impatient tone.

“Never drink! Pale face, thou liest! Who made the fire-water, and gave
it to my people, but thee and thine? Lo! before it, though they once
covered the land, they have melted away like snow beneath the sun.”

“I belong to the temperance society,” cried out Dogberry from within.

“Dogberry,” exclaimed Patterson—whose patience, like that of the crowd
below, who were calling for the usher as if they were at a town meeting,
and expected him to speak, was becoming exhausted—“Dogberry, compel me
not, as your great namesake would say, to commit either ‘perjury’ or
‘burglary,’ and break your door open. You remember in Marmion, Dogberry,
that the chief, speaking of the insult which had been put upon him,
said,

    ‘I’ll right such wrongs where’er they’re given,
    Though in the very court of Heaven.’

Now I will not say that I would make you drink wherever the old chief
would ‘right his wrongs,’ but this I will say, that wherever I, Burbage
Patterson, get drunk, I think you can come forth and take a stirrup cup
with him; he leaves for the Supreme Court to-morrow.”

“Mr. Patterson,” said Dogberry, coming towards the door, “your character
can stand it—it can stand anything—mine can’t.”

“There’s truth in that,” said Mr. Patterson aside to me. “Gentlemen, let
us leave the pedagogue to his reflections; and now it occurs to me that
we had better not uncage him, for, boys, he would be a witness against
you; more, witness, judge, jury and executioner—by the by, clear
against law. Were I in your place, I would appeal, and for every stripe
he gives you, should the judgment be reversed, do you give him two.”

Here a sprightly fellow, one of the scholars, named Morris, from Long
Green, ran up the steps and said to Mr. Patterson,

“Do, sir, have him out, for if we get him into the frolic too, we are as
safe, sir, as if we were all in our beds. He has seen us all through
some infernal crack or other.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Mr. Patterson, in a low tone to Morris, “he has been
playing Cowper, has he—looking from the loopholes of retreat, seeing
the Babel and not feeling the stir?”

“Yes sir, but he’ll make a stir about it to-morrow.”

“He shall come forth, then,” said Mr. Patterson; “Dogberry, open the
door; they speak of removing Sears, and why don’t you come forth and
greet your friends? We have an idea of getting the appointment for you.”

This flattery took instant effect, for we heard Dogberry bustling to the
door, and in a moment it was opened about half way, and the usher put
his head out, and said, but with the evident wish that his invitation
would be refused, “Will you come in sir? Why, William Russell!” to me,
in surprise.

“Pale face, this is a youthful brave, whom I want the pale face to teach
the arts of his race. Behold! I am the Charming Serpent. Come forth and
taste of the fire-water.”

As Mr. Patterson spoke, he took Dogberry by the hand, and pulled him on
to the platform. The usher was greeted with loud acclamations and
laughter by the crowd. He, however, did not relish it, and was
frightened out of his wits. He really looked the personification of a
caricature. His head was covered with an old flannel nightcap,
notwithstanding it was warm weather, and his trousers were held up by
his hips, while his suspenders dangled about his knees. On his right leg
he had an old boot, and on his left foot an old shoe, and was without
coat or vest. As Mr. Patterson held up the light, so that the crowd
below could see him, there was such a yelling as had not been heard on
the spot since those whose characters the crowd were assuming had left
it.

Dogberry hastily withdrew into his room, but followed by Mr. Patterson
and myself, each bearing a light. When we entered, the crowd rushed up
the steps.

“For God’s sake, sir, for the sake of my character and situation, don’t
let them come in here.”

“They shall not, if you will promise to drink with me. Pale face, speak,
will you drink with the Pawnee?”

“Yes sir,” said Dogberry, faintly.

The Charming Serpent here went to the door, and said,

“Brothers, the Charming Serpent would hold a private talk with the chief
of the pale faces. Ere long, he will be with you. Let the Big Bull (one
of the lawyers was named Bull, and he was very humorous,) pass round the
fire-water and the calumet, and by that time the Charming Serpent will
come forth. Brothers, give unto the Charming Serpent some of the
fire-water, that he may work his spells.”

A dozen handed up bottles of different wines and liquors. The Charming
Serpent gave Dogberry the candles to hold, took a bottle of Champaigne,
and handed me another. Then shutting the door, he said,

“This is the fire-water that hath no evil in it. It courses through the
veins like a silvery lake through the prairie, where the wild grass
waves green and placid, and it makes the heart merry like the merriment
of birds in the spring-time, and not with the fierce fires of the dark
lake, like the strong fire-water, that glows red as the living coal.
Brothers, we will drink.”

Dogberry’s apartment was indeed an humble one. Only in the centre of it
could you stand upright. Over our heads were the rafters and bare
shingles, formed exactly in the shape of the capital letter A inverted,
or rather V. Opposite the door was a little window of four panes of
glass, and under it, or rather beside it, in the corner, was a little
bedstead, with a straw mattrass upon it. A small table, with a tumbler
and broken pitcher, and candle in a tin candlestick on it, stood
opposite the bed. A board, nailed across from rafter to rafter, held a
few books, and beside it, on nails, were several articles of clothing.
There were besides in the apartment two chairs, and a wooden chest in
the corner, by the door.

“Come, drink, my old boy,” exclaimed Patterson.

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson, your character can stand it, I tell you, but
mine can’t.”

“Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,” reiterated Patterson, offering
Dogberry the glass.

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson, I would not choose any,” said he.

“You can’t but choose, Dogberry; there is no alternative. Do you
remember what the poet beautifully says of the Roman daughter, who
sustained her imprisoned father from her own breast?—

    ‘Drink, drink and live, old man; Heaven’s realm holds no such tide.’

Do you remember it? I bid you drink, then, and I say to you, Hebe nor
Ganymede ever offered to the immortals purer wine than that. Drink!
here’s to you, Dogberry, and to your speedy promotion,” and Mr.
Patterson swallowed every drop in the glass, and re-filling it, handed
it to the usher.

Without much hesitation, he drank it. He now filled me up a glass nearly
full, and I followed the example of my preceptor, he the while looking
at me with astonishment.

“How do you like the letter, Mr. Dogberry?” asked Mr. Patterson of the
pedagogue.

“What letter, sir? Mr. Patterson, I must say this is a strange
proceeding. I don’t know, sir, to what you allude.”

“Don’t know to what I allude! Why, the letter wishing to know if you
would take the academy at the same price at which Sears now holds it.”

“Sir, I have received no such letter. I certainly, sir, would, if it was
thought that I was—”

“Was competent. Merit is always modest; you’re the most competent of the
two, sir—take some.”

So saying, Mr. Patterson filled up the tumbler, and Dogberry swallowed
the compliment and the wine together, and fixed his eye on the rafters
with an exulting look. While he was so gazing, the lawyer filled his
glass, and observed, “Come, drink, and let me open this other bottle; I
want a glass myself.” Down went the wine, and, with a smack of his lips,
Dogberry handed the glass to Mr. Patterson.

“Capital, ain’t it, eh?”

“Capital,” re-echoed Dogberry. The wine and his supposed honors had
aroused the brain of the pedagogue in a manner which seemed to awake him
to a new existence. While Mr. Patterson was striking the top from the
other bottle, Dogberry handed me the candle which he held—the other he
had put in his candlestick, taking out his own when he first drank—and
lifting the tumbler, he stood ready.

Again he quaffed a bumper. The effect of his potations on him was
electrical. He had a long face, with a snipe-like nose, which was
subjected to a nervous twitching whenever its owner was excited. It now
danced about, seemingly, all over his face, while his naturally
cadaverous countenance, under the excitement, turned to a glowing red,
and his small ferret eyes looked both dignified and dancing, merry and
important. “So,” exclaimed he, “I am to be principal of the academy; ha,
ha, ha! oh, Lord! William Russell, I would reprove you on the spot, but
that you are in such distinguished company.”

Whether Dogberry meant only Mr. Patterson, or included himself, I do not
know, but as he spoke he arose, and paced his humble apartment with a
proud tread, forgetting what a figure he cut, with his suspenders
dangling about his knees and his nightcap on, and forgetting also that
his attic was not high enough to admit his head to be carried at its
present altitude. The consequence was that he struck it against one of
the rafters, with a violence that threatened injury to the rafter, if
not to the head. He stooped down to rub the affected part, when Mr.
Patterson said to him,

“‘Pro-di-gi-ous,’ as Dominie Sampson, one of you, said, ain’t it? Come,
we’ll finish this bottle, and then go forth. The scholars are all
rejoiced at your promotion, and are all assembled without to do you
honor. They have made complete saturnalia of it. They marvel now why you
treat them with so much reserve.”

“Gad, I’ll do it,” exclaimed Dogberry, taking the tumbler and swallowing
the contents.

“Just put your blanket around you,” said Patterson to him. “Let your
nightcap remain; it becomes you.”

“No, it don’t indeed, though, eh?”

“It does, ’pon honor. That’s it. Now, pale face, come forth; the
eloquence of the Charming Serpent has prevailed.”

So speaking, Mr. Patterson opened the door, and we stepped on to the
platform.

The scene without was grotesque in the extreme. In front of us, I
suppose to the number of an hundred persons, were the frolickers,
composed of lawyers, students and town’s-people, all seated in a circle,
while Mr. Patterson’s client from the West, dressed in costume, was
giving the Pawnee war dance. This client was a rough uneducated man, but
full of originality and whim. Mr. Patterson had gained a suit for him,
in which the title to an estate in the neighborhood was involved, worth
upwards of sixty thousand dollars. The whole bar had believed that the
suit could not be sustained by Patterson, but his luminous mind had
detected the clue through the labyrinths of litigation, where they saw
nothing but confusion and defeat. His client was overjoyed at the
result, as every one had croaked defeat to him. He gave Mr. Patterson
fifteen thousand dollars, five more than he had promised, and besides
had made him a present of the splendid Indian dress in which, as a bit
of fun, before the frolic commenced, he had decked himself, under the
supervision of his client, who acted as his costumer, and afterwards
dressed himself in the same way. The client had a great many Indian
dresses with him, which he had collected with great care, and on this
occasion he threw open his trunks, and supplied nearly the whole bar.

The name of Mr. Patterson’s client was Blackwood, and the admiration
which he excited seemed to give him no little pleasure. Most of the
lawyers in the circle had something Indian on them, while the boys, who
could not appear in costume, and were determined to appear wild, had
turned their jackets wrong side out, and swapped with each other, the
big ones with the little, so that one wore his neighbor’s jacket, the
waist of which came up under his arms, and exhibited the back of his
vest, while the other wore a coat the hip buttons of which were at his
knees.

On the outskirts of this motley assembly could be seen, here and there,
a negro, who might be said at once to contribute to the darkness that
surrounded the scene and to reflect light upon it, for their black skins
were as ebon as night, while their broad grins certainly had something
luminous about them, as their white teeth shone forth.

We stood about a minute admiring the dance, when it was concluded, and
some one espied us, and pointed us out to the rest. We, or rather I
should say Dogberry, was greeted with three times three. I have never
seen, for the size of the assembly, such an uproarious outbreak of
bacchanalian merriment. After the cheers were given, many of the boys
threw themselves on the grass and rolled over and over, shouting as they
rolled. Others jerked their fellows’ hats off, and hurled them in air.
Prettyman stood with his arms folded, as if he did not know what to make
of it, and then deliberately spreading his blanket on the ground, as
deliberately took a seat in the centre of it, as if determined to
maintain the full possession of his faculties, and, like an amateur at a
play, enjoy the scene. Morris held his sides, stooped down his head, and
glanced sideways cunningly at Dogberry, throwing his head back every now
and then with a sudden jerk, while loud explosive bursts of laughter,
from his very heart, echoed through the village above every other sound.

“A speech from Dogberry!” exclaimed Prettyman.

“Ay, a speech!” shouted Morris, “a speech!”

“No, gentlemen, not now,” exclaimed Richardson, the proprietor of one of
the hotels; “I sent down to my house an hour ago, and have had a
collation served. Mr. Patterson, and gentlemen and students all, I
invite you to partake with me.”

“Silence!” called out Mr. Patterson. All were silent. “Students of the
Belle Air Academy and citizens generally, I have the honor to announce
to you that my friend, Mr. Dogberry, is about to supersede Mr. Sears. We
must form a procession and place him in our midst, the post of honor,
and then to mine host’s.” So speaking, Mr. Patterson descended, followed
by Dogberry and myself. The students gave their candles to the negroes
to hold, joined their hands, and danced round Dogberry with the wildest
glee, while he received it all in drunken dignity.

When I have seen since, in Chapman’s floating theatre, or in a barn or
shed, some lubberly, drunken son of the sock and buskin enact Macbeth,
with the witches about him, I have recalled this scene, and thought that
the boys looked like the witches and Dogberry like the Thane, when the
witches greet him:

    ‘All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!’

The procession was at length formed. Surrounded by the boys, who rent
the air with shouts, with his nightcap on his head and his blanket
around him, with one boot and one shoe, Dogberry, following immediately
after the judges, proceeded with them to Richardson’s hotel. Whenever
there was the silence of a minute or two, some boy or other would ask
Dogberry not to remember on the morrow that he saw them out that night.

“No, boys, no, certainly not; this thing, I understand, is done in honor
of me. I shan’t take Sears in even as an assistant. Boys, he has not
used me well.”

We arrived at Richardson’s as well as we could, having business on both
sides of the street. His dining-room was a very large one, and he had a
very fine collation set out, with plenty of wines and other liquors.
Judge Willard took the head of the table and Judge Nolan the foot.
Dogberry was to the right of Judge Willard and Mr. Patterson to the
left. He made me sit beside him. The eating was soon despatched, and it
silenced us all a little, while it laid the groundwork for standing
another supply of wine, which was soon sparkling in our glasses, and we
were now all more excited than ever. It was amusing to see the merry
faces of my schoolmates twinkling about among the crowd, trying to catch
and comprehend whatever was said by the lawyers, particularly those that
were distinguished.

Songs were sung, sentiments given, and Indian talks held by the
quantity. Dogberry looked the while first at the boys and then at the
lawyers and then at himself, not knowing whether or not the scene before
him was a reality or a dream. The great respect which the boys showed
him, and Patterson’s making an occasional remark to him, seemed at last
not only fully to impress him with the reality, but also with a full, if
not a sober conviction of his own importance.

“A song!—a song!” was shouted by a dozen of the larger students; “a
song from Morris. Give us ‘Down with the pedagogue Sears.’ Hurrah for
old Dogberry—Dogberry forever.”

“No,” cried out others, “a speech from Mr. Patterson—no, from the
Pawnee. You’re fineable for not speaking in character.”

Here Prettyman took Mr. Patterson courteously by the hand, and said
something to him in a whisper.

“Ah ha!” exclaimed Mr. Patterson, “so shall it be; I like Morris. Come,
my good fellow, sing us the song you wrote; come, Dogberry’s star is now
in the ascendant. ‘Down with the pedagogue Sears’—let’s have it.”

Nothing loth, Morris was placed on the table, while the students
gathered round him, ready to join the chorus. Taking a preparatory glass
of wine, while Mr. Patterson rapped on the table by way of commanding
silence, Morris placed himself in an attitude and sang the following
song, which he had written on some rebellious occasion or other:

                        SONG.

    You may talk of the study of imperial power,
    And tell how their subjects must fawn, cringe and cower,
          And offer the incense of tears;
    But I tell you at once, that there’s none can compare
    With the tyrant that rules o’er the lads of Belle Air,
          So down with the pedagogue Sears.
    (Chorus,)           Down, down,
                Down with the pedagogue Sears.

    The serf has his Sunday—the negroes tell o’er
    Their Christmas, the Fourth, aye, and many days more,
          When they feel themselves any man’s peers;
    But we’re tasked night and day by the line and the rule,
    And Sunday’s no Sunday, for there’s Sunday school,
          So down with the pedagogue Sears.
    (Chorus,)           Down, down, &c.

    So here’s to the lad who can talk to his lass,
    And here’s to the lad who can take down his glass,
          And is only a lad in his years:
    Who can stand up and act a bold part like a man,
    And do just whatever another man can,
          So down with the pedagogue Sears.
    (Chorus,)           Down, down,
                Down with the pedagogue Sears—

“Hip, hip, hurrah—once more,” shouted Morris. “Now then”—

                             Down, down,
                So down with the pedagogue Sears.

While the whole room was in uproarious chorusing, who should enter but
Sears himself. He looked round with stern dignity and surprise, at first
uncertain on whom to fix his indignation, when his eye lit on Dogberry,
who, the most elated and inebriated of all, was flourishing his nightcap
over his head, and shouting, at the top of his voice,

    “Down with the pedagogue Sears.”

As soon as Sears caught a view of Dogberry, he advanced towards him, as
if determined to inflict personal chastisement on the usher. At first
Dogberry prepared again to vociferate the chorus, but when he caught the
eye of Sears, his voice failed him, and he moved hastily towards Mr.
Patterson, who slapped him on the shoulder, and cried out,

“Dogberry, be true to yourself.”

“I am true to myself. Yes, my old boy, old Sears, you’re no longer head
devil at Belle Air Academy. You’re no devil at all, or if you are, old
boy, you’re a poor devil, and be d—d to you.”

“You’re a drunken outcast, sir,” exclaimed Sears. “Never let me see your
face again; I dismiss you from my service,” and so speaking, he took a
note book from his pocket, and began hastily to take down the names of
the students. The Big Bull saw this, and caught it from his hand.

“Sir, sir,” exclaimed Sears, enraged, “my vocation, and not any respect
I bear you, prevents my infliction of personal chastisement upon you.
Boys, young gentlemen, leave instantly for your respective boarding
houses.”

During this, Patterson was clapping Dogberry on the shoulder, evidently
endeavoring to inspire him with courage.

“Tell him yourself,” I overheard Dogberry say.

“No, no,” replied Patterson, “it is your place.”

“Well, then, I’ll tell you at once, Sears, you’re no longer principal of
this academy; you’re dished. Mr. Patterson, sir, will tell you so.”

“Mr. Patterson!” exclaimed Sears, now for the first time recognizing, in
the semblance of the Indian chief, the distinguished lawyer and
statesman. “Sir, I am more than astonished.”

“Sir,” rejoined Patterson, drawing himself up with dignity, “I am a
Pawnee brave; more, a red man eloquent or a pale face eloquent, as it
pleases me; but, sir, under all circumstances, I respect your craft and
calling. What more dignified than such? A poor, unfriended boy, I was
taken by the hand by an humble teacher of a country school, and here I
stand, let me say sir, high in the councils of a great people. Peace to
old Playfair’s ashes. The old philosopher, like Porson, loved his cups,
and, like Parr, loved his pipe; but, sir, he was a ripe scholar and a
noble spirit, and I have so said, sir, in the humble monument which I am
proud, sir, I was enabled, through the education he gave me, to build
over him.

    ‘After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well.’

Yes, as some one says, he was ‘my friend before I had flatterers.’ How
proud he was of me! I remember well catching his eye in making my first
speech, and the approving nod he gave me had more gratification to me
than the approbation of bench, bar and audience. Glorious old Playfair!
Mr. Sears, you were his pupil too. Many a time have I heard him speak of
you; he said, of all his pupils, you were the one to wear his mantle.
And, sir, that was the highest compliment he could pay you—the highest,
Mr. Speaker, for he esteemed himself of the class of the philosophers,
the teachers of youth. Sir, Mr. Sears, I propose to you that in
testimony of our life-long respect for him, we drink to his memory.”

This was said so eloquently, and withal so naturally, that Sears,
forgetful of his whereabouts, took the glass which Mr. Patterson offered
him, and drank its contents reverently to the memory of his old teacher.

“Sir,” resumed Patterson, “how glorious is your vocation! But tell me,
do you subscribe to the sentiment of Don Juan?—

    ‘Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
      Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain,
    I pray ye flog them upon all occasions—
      It mends their morals—never mind the pain.’”

The appropriate quotation caused a thrill to run through the assembled
students, while they cast ominous looks at each other. For the life of
him, Sears could not resist a smile.

At this Mr. Patterson glanced at us with a quiet meaning, and turning to
Mr. Sears, he continued: “The elder Adams taught school—he whose
eloquence Jefferson has so loudly lauded—the man who was for liberty or
death, and so expressed himself in that beautiful letter to his wife. Do
you not remember that passage, sir, where he speaks of the Fourth being
greeted thereafter with bonfires and illuminations? His son, Johnny Q.,
taught school. My dark-eyed friend Webster, who is now figuring so
gloriously in the halls of Congress and in the Supreme Court, taught
school. Judge Rowan, of Kentucky, a master spirit too, taught school.
Who was that

    ‘Who passed the flaming bounds of time and space,
    The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
    Where angels tremble as they gaze:
    Who saw, but, blasted with excess of light,
    Closed his eyes in endless night’—

Who was he? Milton, the glorious, the sublime—who, in his aspirations
for human liberty, prayed to that great spirit who, as he himself says,
“sends forth the fire from his altar to touch and purify the lips of
whom he pleaseth”—Milton, the schoolmaster.

    ‘If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
      Milton appealed to the avenger, Time:
    If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs,
      And if the word ‘Miltonic’ mean ‘sublime,’
    He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,
      Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
    He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,
    But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

    ‘Thinkest thou, could he—the blind old man—arise,
      Like Samuel, from the grave, to freeze once more
    The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
      Or be alive again—again, all hoar
    With time and trials, and those helpless eyes
    And heartless daughters, worn, and pale, and poor—’

Would he not be proud of his vocation, when he reflected how many great
spirits had followed his example? The schoolmaster is indeed abroad. Mr.
Sears, let us drink the health of the blind old man eloquent.”

“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Patterson, but before my scholars, under the
circumstances, it would be setting a bad example, when existing
circumstances prove they need a good one. Sir, it was thought that I
should not return from Baltimore until to-morrow, and this advantage has
been taken of my absence. But, Mr. Patterson, when such distinguished
gentlemen as yourself set the example, I know not what to say.”

“Forgive them, sir, forgive them,” said Patterson, in his blandest tone.

“Let them repair to their homes, then, instantly. Mr. Patterson, your
eloquent conversation had made me forget myself; I don’t wonder they
should have forgotten themselves. Let them depart.”

“There, boys,” exclaimed Mr. Patterson, “I have a greater opinion of my
oratorical powers than ever. Be ye all dismissed until I again appear as
a Pawnee brave, which I fear will be a long time, for ’tis not every day
that such men as my western client are picked up. But, Mr. Sears, what
do you say about Dogberry? He must be where he was; to-morrow must but
type yesterday. Dogberry, how is Verges?”

“I don’t know him,” said Dogberry, doggedly.

“Why, sir, he is the associate of your namesake in Shakspeare’s immortal
page. Let this play to-night, Mr. Sears, be like that in which
Dogberry’s namesake appeared—let it be ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’”

Sears smiled, and nodded his head approvingly.

“Then be the court adjourned,” exclaimed Mr. Patterson. “Dogberry, you
and my friend Sears are still together, and you must remember in the
premises what your namesake said to Verges, ‘An’ two men ride of a
horse, one man must ride behind.’”

Giving three cheers for Mr. Patterson, we boys departed, and the next
day found us betimes in the academy, where mum was the word between all
parties.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE WITHERED ROSE.


                          BY ALEX. A. IRVINE.


    Thou pale withered flower, oh! once thou wert fair,
      But now ev’ry leaf has been nipped by a blight—
    Dost thou pine for the bosom, its fragrance to share,
      Whence I won thee, sweet nestler, at parting one night?

    How beauteous thy head, as it modestly stoop’d
      Its blushes to hide in her bosom of snow—
    How sweetly above thee her fair tresses droop’d—
      How pure was the heart beating stilly below!

    Oh! sweet was her smile as the first blush of Eve,
      And soft was her voice as the low summer wind,
    When she gave thee away, half reluctant to leave,
      Like an angel from heaven sent down to mankind.

    I have cherished thee since as if never to part,
      Thou remindest me so of that fair girl away;—
    But, ah! can I banish the blight from thy heart,
      Or save thee from withering day after day?

    And thus, oh! how often, the ones we love best,
      Drop away from our sides like the roses in June—
    But why should we weep? since they pass to their rest,
      And if parted awhile, we shall follow them soon.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE REEFER OF ’76.


              BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”


                              CUTTING OUT.

We had now been several months at sea, and, although our stores had been
more than once replenished from the prizes we had taken, our provisions
began to grow scarce. The skipper accordingly announced his intention of
going into port. We bore up, therefore, for Charleston, that being the
most convenient harbor.

My emotions on approaching the place where Beatrice resided, I shall not
attempt to describe. A full year had passed since we had parted, and in
all that time I had heard of her but once. Might she not now be married
to another? The proverbial fickleness of her sex; the known opposition
of her family to my suit; her uncertainty whether I still continued to
care for her, or whether even I was yet alive; and a thousand other
reasons why she might be unfaithful to me, rose up before me to torture
me with doubts. But most of all, I reflected on our different situations
in society. She was rich, courted, allied to rank—I was poor, unknown,
and a rebel officer. Many a night as I lay in my solitary hammock, or
trod my silent watch on deck, the fear that I might find Beatrice the
wife of another, filled my soul with agony. And yet could I doubt her
faith?

At length we entered Charleston harbor, and with a gentle breeze floated
up towards the town. It was a moonless night, but the sky above was
spangled with a thousand stars, and the low outline of the city before
us glittered with myriads of lamps. The wind just ruffled the glassy
surface of the bay, fanning us, as it swept by, with a delicious
coolness. Here and there, on either shore, a light from a solitary house
flickered through the darkness, while occasionally a sheet of summer
lightning would play along the western firmament, where a low belt of
clouds skirted the horizon, and hung like a veil above the city.
Everything reminded me of the night when I had sailed up this same
harbor with Beatrice. What had I not witnessed since then! The
shipwreck, the battle, the hurricane, fire and sword, danger in every
shape, almost death itself—I had endured them all. During that period
where had been Beatrice? A few hours would determine.

With a beating heart, the next morning I sought the residence of
Beatrice’s uncle. How my brain swam and my knees tottered when I came in
sight of the mansion which contained the form of her whom I loved! I had
understood that the family, except one or two of the ladies of it, was
out of town, and I burned with impatience to ascertain whether Beatrice
was among the absentees. Yet my heart failed me when I came in sight of
the residence of her uncle. I recollected the terms on which I had
parted with Mr. Rochester, and I scarcely thought myself allowable in
intruding on his hospitality in any shape. But, then, how else could I
obtain an interview with Beatrice? Again and again I approached the
door, and again and again I changed my mind and retired; but at length
remembering that my conduct was attracting attention, and unable longer
to endure my suspense, I advanced boldly to the portal, and knocked at
the hall door. It was answered by a strange porter. With a fluttering
heart I inquired for Miss Derwent. I felt relieved from a load of fear
when informed that she was in town, and hastily thrusting my card into
the man’s hand, I followed him eagerly into the drawing-room. He
disappeared, and I was alone.

Who can forget his emotions, when, after a long separation from the
object of his love, he finds himself under the same roof with his
mistress, awaiting her appearance? How he pictures to himself the joy
with which the announcement of his arrival, especially if unexpected,
will be received! He fancies every look that will be exchanged and every
word that will be said at the moment of meeting. As the moments elapse,
he imagines, however short the time may be, that the appearance of his
mistress is unavoidably delayed, and a hundred fears arise, vague,
unfounded, and but half believed, that perhaps her affection has grown
lukewarm. Each successive instant of suspense increases his doubts until
they amount almost to agony; and as a light footfall—oh! how well
remembered!—breaks upon his ear, he almost dreads to meet her whom but
an hour before he would have given worlds to behold. So was it now with
myself. As minute after minute elapsed, and still Beatrice did not
appear, my fears amounted almost to madness; and when at length I heard
her light tread approaching, my heart began to beat so violently that I
thought I should have fainted. Anxious to resolve my doubts, by
observing her demeanor before I should be seen myself, I sprang into the
recess of a window. As I did so, the door opened and Beatrice entered
hurriedly, looking, if possible, more beautiful than ever. Her cheek was
flushed, her step was quick and eager, and her eyes shone with a joy
that could not be affected. She advanced several steps into the room,
when, perceiving no one, she gazed inquiringly around, with a look, I
thought, of disappointment. I moved from the recess. She turned quickly
around at the noise, blushed over brow, neck and bosom, and, with a
faint cry of joy, sprang forward, and was locked the next instant in my
arms.

“Beatrice—my own, my beautiful!”

“Harry—_dear_ Harry!” were our mutual exclamations, and then, locked in
each other’s embrace, for a moment we forgot in our rapture to speak.

At length we awoke from this trance of delight, and found leisure for
rational conversation. Sitting side by side on the sofa, with our hands
locked together, and our eyes looking as it were into each other’s
souls, we recounted our mutual histories since our separation. With mine
the reader is already acquainted. That of Beatrice was naturally less
chequered, but yet it was not without interest.

I have said that an alliance had been projected between Beatrice and her
cousin, and that Mr. Rochester had placed his whole soul on the
consummation of this project. The consciousness of my interest in the
heart of Beatrice had induced their conduct towards myself, under the
hope that if once separated from her, I would be eventually forgotten by
Miss Derwent. Time, however, proved how false had been this hope.
Instead of prospering in his suit from my absence, every day only seemed
to make the success of her cousin more problematical. In vain her uncle
persuaded; in vain he expostulated; in vain he lavished all his scorn on
me as a beggar and a rebel—Beatrice continued unmoved; now defending me
from every imputation, and now with tears giving up the contest,
although unconvinced. The letter she received from me, by acquainting
her with my projected cruise, prepared her for the long silence on my
part which had ensued; and although reports, no doubt originating with
her persecutors, were circulated respecting my arrival in port, and the
disreputable life I was said to lead, she remained faithful to me amid
it all. Oh! what is like woman’s love? Amid sorrow and joy; in sunshine
or storm; whether distant or near; in every varied circumstance of life,
it is the solace of our existence, the green spot amid the arid deserts
of the world. Nothing can change it—nothing can dim its brightness.
Even injury fails to break down the love of woman. You may neglect, you
may abuse her, if you will; but still, with a devotion not of this
earth, she clings to you, cheering you in distress, smiling on you in
joy, and amply repaid if she only win in return one kind word, one look
of approval. Thank God! that, fallen as we are, there is left to us that
link of our diviner nature—the pure, deep, unchanging love of woman.

With what joy did I hear that Beatrice was still mine, wholly mine, and
how ardently did I press her to my bosom, invoking her again and again
to repeat the blessed words which assured me of her love! Hours passed
away as if they had been minutes. And when at length I rose to depart,
and, imprinting another kiss on her but half averted lips, took my leave
with a promise to return again the ensuing morning, my astonishment
passed all bounds to learn that noon had long since passed, and that the
evening was almost at hand.

During the short time that we remained in port, I was daily with
Beatrice, and when we parted she pledged herself to be mine at the end
of another year, come what might. My heart, I will admit, reproached me
afterwards for winning this promise from her, and inducing her to give
up wealth and luxury for the bare comforts an officer’s pay could
afford; and yet her love was such a priceless gem, and she looked up to
me with such unreserved devotedness, that I could not regret a vow which
ensured me the right to protect her from the cold tempests of the world.
Besides, we were both young and full of hope, and I trusted some
fortunate event might occur which would yet allow us to be united with
the concurrence of her friends.

“Uncle is suspected and watched by the colonial authorities,” said
Beatrice, as we parted, “and I fear me that he is linked in with some of
those who have designs against the state. I tremble to think what might
be his fate if detected in any conspiracy to restore the king’s
authority.”

“Fear not, dearest,” I replied, “I will interest Col. Moultrie in his
favor, and besides, your uncle must see the danger of any such attempt
at present.”

“And yet I have fearful forebodings.”

“Cheer up, sweet one, he has nothing to dread. But now I must go. God
bless you, Beatrice!” and I kissed her fervently.

She murmured something half inaudibly, returned my parting embrace with
a sigh, and, while a tear stood in her eye, waved a final adieu with her
kerchief. In an hour the schooner had sailed.

We had been at sea but a few days, having run down the Bahamas in that
time, when we spoke a French merchantman, and obtained from him the
intelligence that an English ship, with a valuable cargo and a large
amount of specie, was then lying at the port of ——, in one of the
smaller islands. She was well armed, however, and carried the crew of a
letter of marque. But the skipper instantly determined on attempting her
capture. Accordingly, we bore up for the island within an hour after we
had spoken the merchantman, and having a favorable breeze to second our
wishes, we made the low headlands of the place of our destination just
as the sun sank behind them into the western ocean. Not wishing to be
detected, we hauled off until evening, spending the intervening time in
preparing for the adventure.

The night was fortunately dark. There was no moon, and a thick veil of
vapors overhead effectually shrouded the stars from sight. The seaboard
was lined with dusky clouds; the ocean heaved in gentle undulations; and
a light breeze murmured by, with a low soft music in its tone, like the
whisper of a young girl to her lover. As the twilight deepened, the
shadowy outlines of the distant land became more and more indistinct,
until at length they were merged in the obscurity of the whole western
firmament. No sound was heard over the vast expanse as we resumed our
course, and silently stretched up towards the island.

It was nearly midnight when we reached the mouth of the harbor. All
within was still. The town lay along the edge of the water,
distinguishable by its long line of flickering lamps; while a dark mass
on the left of the harbor betrayed the position of the battery guarding
the port. One or two small coasting vessels were moored at the quay,
and, a few cables’ length out in the harbor, rode at anchor the
merchantman. He was in part protected by the guns of the fort; but other
means of defence had not been forgotten, for his nettings were triced
up, and he swung at his anchor as if springs were on his cables. A
solitary lantern hung at his mast-head, throwing a faint radiance around
the otherwise shadowy ship. Not a sound arose from his decks.
Occasionally a low murmur would float down from the far-off town, or the
cry of a sentry at the fort would rise solemnly on the still night air;
but except these faint sounds, at long intervals apart, a deep, unbroken
silence buried the whole landscape in repose.

“Pipe away the boats’ crews,” said the skipper, when, everything having
been planned, we had steered our craft under the shadow of the huge
cape, and now lay to in our quiet nook, hidden from observation.

The boatswain issued his summons almost in a whisper, and the men
answered with unusual promptness. In a few minutes the boats were
manned, and we were waiting with muffled oars for the signal. We
lingered only a moment to receive the last orders of the captain, when,
with a whispered “give way,” the gallant fellows bent to the oars, and
we shot from the schooner’s side. In a few moments she was lost in the
gloom. I watched her through the gathering night, as spar after spar
faded into the obscurity, until at length nothing could be seen of her
exquisite proportions but a dark and shapeless mass of shadow; and at
length, when I turned my eyes in her direction again, after having had
my attention for a moment called away, even the slight outline of her
form had disappeared, and nothing but the gloomy seaboard met my eye.

The night was now so dark that we could scarcely see a fathom before us;
but, guided by an old salt who had been brought up on the island, and
knew the harbor as accurately as a scholar knows his horn book, we
boldly kept on our course. As we swept around the headland, we perceived
that the town, so lately alive with lights, was now buried in a profound
darkness. The solitary lantern, however, still burned at the fore-peak
of the Englishman, like a star hanging alone in the firmament, to guide
us on our way. Every eye was fixed on it as we rapidly but noiselessly
swept up towards the merchantman. The fort was buried in gloom. The
other vessels in the harbor lay hidden in the palpable obscurity ahead.
No sound was heard, no object was seen, as we moved on in our noiseless
course. At length the huge hull of the merchantman began to be
indistinctly visible upon our starboard bow, and, lying on our oars for
a moment, we held a short, eager consultation on our future course. It
was soon, however, terminated. As yet we had remained undiscovered, and
as the slightest accident might betray us, not a moment was to be lost
if we would surprise the foe. It had been arranged that I should dash
into the larboard side of the Englishman, while the two other boats
should attack him simultaneously on his starboard bow and quarter; and
accordingly, as my companions sheered off, I gave a whispered order to
my men to pull their best, and the next instant we were shooting with
the rapidity of an arrow right on to the foe.

The instant preceding the attack is always a thrilling one. You know not
but that in a few minutes you may be in eternity, and as yet you are not
carried away with that reckless enthusiasm which, in the heat of the
contest, makes you insensible to every thing but the struggle. On the
present occasion I felt as I had never felt before. The odds against us
were fearful, for the ship was admirably defended, and we had every
reason to believe that her crew outnumbered our own. As I looked around
on my men, I saw more than one hardy veteran cast an uneasy glance at
the foe. But it was no time now to pause. We had scarcely pulled a dozen
strokes, and were yet some distance from the ship, when the sentry from
her quarter cried out, “Boat ahoy!” and then perceiving that we still
advanced, he fired his piece and gave the alarm. I saw the moment for
action had come. Disguise was now useless. Instantaneously I forgot the
feelings which had just been passing through my mind, and, like a
war-horse starting at a trumpet, I sprang up in the stern sheets, and
waving my sword aloft, shouted,

“Give way, my lads—give way, and lay us aboard the rascals—with a
will, boys—pull!”

As if fired with an enthusiasm which nothing might resist, my gallant
fellows sprang to their oars with renewed vigor at my words, until the
oaken blades almost snapped beneath their brawny arms; and we were
already within a few fathoms of the ship’s quarter when a volley from
the merchantman hit the stroke-oarsman in front of me, and he fell dead
across the thwart. The boat staggered in her course. I could hear our
companions surging but a short distance behind, and I burned to be the
first to mount the enemy’s deck.

“On—on!” I shouted; “pull for your lives, my lads—pull, pull!”

A thundering cheer burst from the brave veterans, as they bent with even
redoubled power to their task, and with a few gigantic strokes sent us
shooting upon the quarters of the foe. Waving my sword above my head, I
sprang at once up the ship’s side, calling on my crew to follow me. They
needed not the invocation. The boat had scarcely touched the vessel
before every man, cutlass in hand, was clambering over the side of the
foe; and in an instant, with one simultaneous spring, old and young,
officer and men, we tumbled in upon the enemy. And like men they met us.
It was no child’s play—that conflict! Fearfully outnumbering us,
apprised of and ready for our onset, fighting on their own decks too,
and knowing that succor was at hand from the fort even in case of
defeat, the crew of the Englishman met our attack with an unbroken
front, giving back blow for blow and shout for shout. Short, wild and
terrific was the conflict. Conscious of the vicinity of the other boats,
the enemy wished to overcome us before we could be succored; while we
struggled as desperately to maintain our footing until aid should
arrive. But our efforts were in vain. Pressing on to us in dense,
overpowering numbers, and hemming us in on every quarter but that by
which we had boarded the ship, they seemed determined to drive us into
the ocean pell-mell, or slaughter us outright. No quarter was asked or
given. Man after man fell around me in the vain attempt to maintain our
footing. Already I had received two cutlass wounds myself. Our ranks
were fearfully thinned. Yet still I cheered on my men, determined rather
to die at bay than surrender or retreat. But all seemed in vain. Several
men had already fallen before my arm, and the deck was slippery with the
blood of friend and foe; yet the enemy did not appear to lessen in
numbers. As fast as one man fell, another filled his place. Despair took
possession of us. I saw nothing before us but a glorious death, and I
determined that it should be one long after to be talked of by my
countrymen. All this, however, had passed almost in a minute. Suddenly I
heard a cheer on the starboard bow of the enemy, and as it rose clear
and shrill over all the din of the conflict, I recognised the Fireflies
clambering over the ship’s side in that direction.

“Huzza! the day’s our own!” I shouted, in the revulsion of feeling.
“Come on, my lads, and let us hew the scoundrels to the chine!” and,
with another wild huzza, I dashed like a madman upon the cutlasses of
the foe. My men followed me with the fury of a whirlwind. Wild,
terrible, overpowering was that charge; fierce, desperate and relentless
was the resistance. The scene that ensued eternity will not eradicate
from my memory. Hand to hand and foot to foot we fought, each man
striving with his opponent, conscious that life or death depended on the
issue: while swords clashed, pistols exploded, shouts rent the air, and
blood flowed on every hand as if it had been water. Now the foe yielded,
and now we retired in turn. Swaying to and fro, striking around
pell-mell, thrusting, parrying, hewing, wrestling in the death-grip, or
hurling the fallen from our path, now clearing our way by main force,
and now breaking the enemy’s front by a deceptive retreat, we succeeded
at length in driving the foe back in a broken mass on their assailants
from the bow. Then they rallied, and, with the fury of tigers at bay,
returned to the charge. If ever men fought like demons, they did. As
they grew more and more desperate, they fairly howled with rage. Their
curses were terrific. God help me from ever witnessing such a sight
again! I saw that it only needed another vigorous charge to complete
their defeat, and rallying my little band around me once more, though
every man of them was wounded, we dashed on to the foe, determined to
cut our way through to our friends, or drive the enemy down the
hatchway.

“Once more, my boys, once more—huzza for liberty!—on!”

“Come on, ye rebel knaves!” growled the leader of the British, and
striking at me with his cutlass, to challenge me to single combat, he
roared, “Take that, ye hell-hound.” One of my men sprang to my aid.

“Back—back!” I shouted, “leave him to me.”

“Ay, God’s curse be on you—” but his words were lost in the clash of
the conflict. For a moment I thought he was more than my match, but his
very rage overreached itself, and failing to guard himself sufficiently,
he exposed his person, and the next instant my sword passed through his
body. He fell backwards without a groan. His men saw him fall, and a
score of weapons were pointed at me.

“Down with him—hew him to the ground,” roared the British.

“Hurrah for Parker!—beat back the villains!” thundered my own men, and
the contest, which had paused during the combat between the fallen chief
and myself, now raged with redoubled frenzy, the whole fury of the enemy
being directed against myself. I remember shouts, curses, and groans,
the clash of cutlasses and the roar of fire-arms, and then comes a faint
memory of a sharp pain in my side, succeeded by a reeling in my brain,
and a sensation of staggering, as if about to fall. After that all is
blank.

When I recovered my senses, I was lying on the quarter deck, while the
cool night breeze swept deliciously over my fevered brow, and my ears
were soothed with the gentle ripple of the waters as the ship moved on
her course. A solitary star, struggling through a rent in the clouds
overhead, shone calmly down on me. I turned uneasily around.

“How are you, Parker?” said the voice of the lieutenant, approaching me.
“We are nearing the schooner rapidly, when you’ll have your wound
attended to—I bandaged it as well as I could.”

“Thank you,” I said, faintly. “But have you really brought off the
prize?”

“Ay, ay,” said he, laughing, “we got off, although they hailed cannon
balls around us like sugar-plums at a carnival in Rome. Never before did
I run such a gauntlet. But the sleepy fellows did not get properly awake
until we had made sail—had they opened their fire at once, they might
have sent us to Davy Jones’ locker in a trice.”

“And the enemy’s crew?”

“All snug below hatches, every mother’s son of them. They fought like
devils, and came within an ace of beating us. But, faith, yonder is the
old schooner. Ship, ahoy!”

We were soon aboard. My wound proved a serious, though not a dangerous
one, and for several weeks I was confined to my hammock.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           A DAY AT NIAGARA.


                         BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.


“Well, here’s an evil of rail-road travelling that I never thought of
before!” screamed a bright girl, with pouting, rosy lips and a dimpled
chin, at the risque of spoiling as sweet a voice as ever warbled “Away
with Melancholy,” on a May morning; addressing her words to our good
cousin, who had taken upon himself the responsible charge of escorting a
party of ladies, (among whom were the fair speaker, his sister, and my
fortunate self,) to see the great ‘lion’ of this western world.

“You say that we are within five miles of Niagara, yet I cannot hear its
voice for the eternal gabble, gabble of this locomotive. Why, all my
dreams have been associated with the geographic recollections of
childhood, which invariably said, ‘The roar of the cataract may be heard
distinctly at the distance of fifteen or twenty miles.’”

“You forget,” replied her brother, “that it is when those wise
assurances were written, which make the eyes of the school-girl stand
out ‘as visibly as letters on a sign,’ that this rapid, noisy mode of
travelling was unthought of: wait a little, my sweet sis., till we reach
the point of our destination, and Niagara’s thundering bass will sound
all the mightier, for bursting suddenly upon your ear.”

While these remarks were passing, we were nearing the end of our
journey; and on reaching the depot, our party was among the foremost to
leave the puffing, snorting, “black poney” behind, as we turned our
faces towards the hotel. But neither my fair cousin nor myself seemed
_astounded_ at the noise of the cataract; much to the surprise of her
brother. The truth was, that in this particular of _sound_ our “loud
expectations” exceeded the reality; though it may as well be remembered
here as elsewhere, that before leaving Niagara, our ears _were_ “filled
with hearing,” no less than were our “eyes satisfied with seeing.” The
sun was first hiding his face behind the golden curtain of a July
evening, and tea already sending its grateful fragrance from the ample
board, as we reached “The Cataract House;” so it was agreed that we
should refresh ourselves with a dish of the green beverage, before
sallying out for a peep at the Falls:—furthermore, that until then, no
one of our party should approach a certain window which commanded a view
of the rapids, upon the penalty of our good-natured cousin’s
displeasure; and as we had one and all promised obedience to his wishes,
each poised herself on the tip-toe of curiosity, long enough to swallow
a boiling draught, at the expense of sore, though not _disabled_
tongues, for some days thereafter. We were, however, too unmerciful to
allow our gallant the comforts of his cigar after tea; but by sundry
hints, in the form of bonnets and shawls, compelled his politeness to
yield to our impatience for the evening ramble. Our footsteps were first
directed to the bridge which extends over the boiling, angry rapids, to
Goat Island. Even here, it would seem that as much of the awful, the
sublime, and the beautiful, had met together, as human eyes could endure
to look upon! As we leaned over the railing of the bridge, (holding on
instinctively with convulsive grasp,) and surveyed the yawning
whirlpools beneath, encompassed by the ever-restless foam, I, for one,
thought I had never seen any thing terrific before! But from the
imperfect view of the falls, which the gathering shades of twilight and
the American side gave us that evening, my “first impressions” were
those of bitter disappointment. “And is this the end of all my vast
imaginings?” said I, in haste to myself, but breathed it not aloud; for,
indeed, even then and there, the scene was grand and imposing: so I held
my peace, resolving to await the morning beams, for its rainbow crown,
and retire to my pillow _opinionless_, touching the glories of the grand
cataract.

The sun looked down upon us the next morning without the shadow of a
cloud between, and preparations commenced at an early hour, for a day at
Niagara. Much to our delight, we found a familiar party of ladies and
gentlemen, at a sister hotel, who had arrived during the night, and
would join us in the pleasures of the day. As it happened that the
gentlemen of said party outnumbered the ladies, the _fair_
responsibilities of our obliging cousin (who had performed the part of
“beau-general” much to the credit of his gallantry) were _fairly_
divided with the other beaux, and all things being arranged, each lady
could boast of her own protector. I know of nothing that quickens the
pleasing excitement of these excursions more than an unexpected recruit
of acquaintances and friends. Never was there a gayer or happier little
company than left the “Cataract House” that shadowless summer morning,
to cross the green waters of Niagara river for the Canada side. Oh! how
those bright faces come up before me now, as if among the vivid
recollections of yesterday! There was the brilliant Mrs. —— with her
raven curls, matchless form, and “dangerous eyes of jet,” ever and anon
returning a dazzling smile for the involuntary gaze of admiration. And
what coquette by _nature_ ever learned, until she had been the happy
wife and mother _more_ than two years, to confine her favorable glances
to _one_ beloved object. Albeit the beautiful Mrs. —— is “a jewel of a
wife,” though I heard her adoring husband confess that very day, that
she “caught” him “with her eyes!” There, too, in striking contrast, was
the gentle wife of our happy cousin, with her hazel “eyes, like shaded
water;” the carnation of modesty on her cheeks, and “the ornament of a
meek and quiet spirit” beaming on her brow. And then the fair Miss ——,
only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. ——, from New York, who were exposing,
for the first time, their fragile flower of sixteen summers, whose
delicate complexion, and lily hands, needed none to affirm that “the
winds of heaven never visited her too roughly;” but whose chief
attraction seemed in some way connected with the appellation of
“heiress!” So no doubt thought a whiskered “fortune-hunter,” who, by
dint of bows and smiles, had contrived to insinuate himself into the
good graces of our party, and played the devoted to Miss ——, after the
most approved fashion. To say nothing of the pretty sister of our
cousin, with her tiny feet—“the lightest and gentlest that ever from
the heath-flower brushed the dew!” Nor of the radiant and fascinating
belle of ——, who had already commenced a flirtation with the rich
southerner, who was her chosen _knight_ for the day. Nor of other
laughing eyes and mirth-stirring spirits that made up the party. But,
alas! the shadow of death falls ever upon life’s retrospect picture. Of
one individual, whose gallantry, good sense and extraordinary musical
powers, rendered him a favorite of the fair, on that occasion, may it
now be said, “the places that knew him shall know him no more.” In early
manhood, and in a stranger’s grave, sleeps he whose active step, whose
buoyant spirits, whose melody of song and sparkling wit concealed from
us the insatiate disease, whose slow, sure worm had even then fastened
upon his vitals. Consumption sent him to the balmy south, there to find
a resting place ’mid orange groves and perpetual-blooming flowers. Peace
be with the ashes of the early, the gifted dead.

No sooner was our little barge on the centre of the rapid tide, and the
eye glanced upward and round about, than a scene of magnificence and
glory burst upon us, which it had “never entered into the heart to
conceive!” Many have attempted to describe it; but if the ablest pen of
the most ready writer hath failed to embrace half its wondrous beauties,
let not this humble pen dare to desecrate what for sublimity and
loveliness is verily _indescribable_! To us it seemed that “the
fountains of the deep were again broken up”—as if old _Ocean_ was
pouring forth his deep green floods into that awful abyss, so wide, so
vast, so terrible was their rush to the brink—so mighty and resistless
their plunge into the boiling chasm! There hung the rainbow, with God’s
promise in its hues of beauty—

    “That arch, where angel-forms might lean,
    And view the wonders of the mighty scene!”

On reaching the Canada side, our first “post of observation” was Table
Rock. The picture it presents—who shall paint it? The most striking
feature of the whole is the vast _quantity_ of water which pours
unceasing and unspent, and its consequent deeply emerald hue as it
passes the rocks, before breaking in its fall to the pure, amber-shaded
foam, which sends up an eternal incense of spray to Heaven. Another
feature of beauty which arrested our attention was the meeting of the
floods at the termination of the “Horse-shoe Fall,” where an angle of
the rocks causes a continual _embrace of the waters_. The eye could
scarce weary in viewing this _one_ beauty of the scene; but before the
mighty _whole_, awe-struck, the heart could only bow in silent adoration
to that Great Being who made it all, for “the spirit of God moved on the
face of the waters!” We next ascended the craggy steep to a
wide-extended plain above, where are placed the barracks of the
“Forty-third regiment of Her Majesty’s troops.” Fortunately for us, the
day was one of regular review, and the whole regiment was out on duty.
As we reached the brow of the hill, where, on the one side, was Niagara
in all its glory, and on the other an extensive military display of red
coats and arms of steel flashing in the sunlight, I thought that Nature
and Art needed no embellishment from the pen of Fancy—“’Twas like
enchantment all!” While in the full enjoyment of this glorious scene,
her Majesty’s well-disciplined band played the familiar air of “God save
the Queen!” as to _us_ it was never played before, and my heart vibrated
with as much joy as it ever felt at the sound of our national air, “Hail
Columbia!”

Our party returned to the hotel at sunset, all uniting in the opinion
that it is impossible to anticipate too much of enjoyment at Niagara, so
far as it respects the marvellous and beautiful in nature, and only
regretting that we could not pass a month, instead of a day, with its
scenes around us. A few hours, previous to our departure the following
morning, were spent in exploring Goat Island, so far as our limited time
would allow. ’Tis in sooth a “fairy isle,” lashed day and night by the
untiring rapids, and affording various and beautiful views of the great
cataract it divides. The luxuriant foliage of its majestic trees
shelters the admirer of the scenes around from the noonday heat, and the
odors from its garden of flowers regale his senses the while.

We bade a reluctant adieu to Niagara, calling to mind all the
imaginations that the heart had devised—all the descriptions we had
heard from others’ lips—but with the words of “the Queen of the East”
on our own, “_The half was not told me_.”

By way of concluding this imperfect sketch, we add some few lines, which
were written in despite of a resolution most religiously _made_ against
such a presumptive measure; for, somehow or other, the humblest, as well
as the loftiest pen, will attempt in numbers to express the _un_numbered
thoughts and “strange, which crowd into the brain” at Niagara. And while
this prince of cataracts flows on, its terrific beauties will be still
the oft-told but unspent theme of the “spirit-stirring muse.”

                    NIAGARA.

    “How dreadful is this place!” for God is here!
    His name is graven on th’ eternal rocks,
    As with an iron pen and diamond’s point:
    While their unceasing floods his voice proclaim,
    Oft as their thunder shakes the distant hills.
    O! if the forest-trees, which have grown old
    In viewing all the wonders of this scene,
    Do tremble still, and cast to earth their leaves—
    Familiar as they are with things sublime—
    Shall not the timid stranger here unloose
    His sandals, ere he treads on “holy ground,”
    And bow in humble worship to his God?

    For unto such as do approach with awe
    This bright creation of th’ Immortal Mind,
    Methinks there comes, amid the deafening roar
    Of “many waters,” yet “a still, small voice,”
    Which saith, “Ye children of the dust, fear not—
    Know that this God, this awful God, is _yours_!”
    Yes, here have wrath and peace together met—
    Justice and Mercy sweetly have embraced;
    For, o’er the terrors of the angry floods,
    The bow of promise and of beauty hangs:
    When in the sunbeams, with its matchless hues,
    Or as a silver arch on evening’s brow,
    Saying, “God’s works are marvellous and great,
    But ah! when understood, his name is Love.”

    Cedar Brook, Plainfield, N. J.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         MAJOR DADE’S COMMAND.


    A requiem for the gallant dead?
      A dirge for those who died,
    With banner streaming overhead,
      Unsoiled, unterrified!
    A gallant but devoted band,
    They fell, unyielding, sword in hand.

    They hear not now the Indian yell,
      Nor cannon’s angry roar;
    The clash of arms, or ’larum bell,
      Shall startle them no more!
    Unlike and severed were their homes—
    One sepulchre contains their bones.

    The spangled banner that has led
      So oft to victory,
    Its stars undimmed, above their bed,
      Unfolded to the sky,
    When in the unconquered hearts below,
    The tide of life had ceased to flow.

    No sculptured imagery on high,
      Reveals their lonely grave.
    No epitaph can passer spy,
      To tell where rest the brave!
    Such may become the gilded tomb,
    But not the stern old forest’s gloom.

    Like streamers, to the passing breeze,
      The unshorn grass waves here;
    As silent mourners, blighted trees,
      Or monuments appear;
    The glad, wild birds their requiem sing,
    And flowers around their incense fling.

    The smile that struggles in the eye,
      When withered is the heart,
    Reminding us of hopes gone by,
      No joy, but gloom impart;
    So nature loses all its bloom,
    And beauty round the loved one’s tomb.

    Though wild and distant is the spot,
      Where their bleached bones are laid,
    More hallowed ground is honored not
      By widow, sire, or maid:
    And fame shall shield from vulgar tread,
    The ashes of the valiant dead.

    And though around their lowly tomb,
      No kin or friends are found,
    Who weep the blight of manhood’s bloom
      On valor’s sacred ground;
    Yet loving hearts are chill with woe,
    And eyes are dim with sorrow’s flow.

    As to some venerated shrine,
      Whose lights have ceased to hum,
    Shall pilgrims here, in after time,
      Their wand’ring footsteps turn,
    And view in Fancy’s magic glass,
    The scene of death before them pass.

    Perchance, upon the spot they fell,
      Some monument may then
    Its lofty column rear to tell
      The gratitude of men;
    The noble dead! they need it not;
    Their valor consecrates the spot.

                          Conrad.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               THE WIDOW.


    There sits a mourner, solitary now
    With downcast eyes, and pale dejected brow.
    Cold is the pillow where she laid her head,
    When last they sat beneath their favorite shade—
    Hushed is the voice, which ever to her own
    Answered in tones of tenderness alone.

    Stilled are the merry notes of childish glee,
    And she is left—of all that family!
    She looks abroad—and sees no welcome smile,
    No cheerful sounds her weary hours beguile,
    She looks within—and all is mute despair,
    She looks to Heaven—oh! joy! her all is there.

                                   M. S. B. D.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.


Since our last number went to press, we have been called upon to mourn
the death of Willis Gaylord Clark, one of the contributors to this
Magazine, and a poet of unusual sweetness, elegance, melody and pathos.
He died, in his thirty-second year, of pulmonary consumption. He had
more than once been almost prostrated by this fell disease, but his
constitution had rallied against its attacks, and he, as well as his
friends, entertained hopes of his recovery; but about two months before
his death, the disease apparently returned with renewed violence, and,
after sinking gradually beneath its power, Mr. Clark’s life terminated
on Sunday, the 13th of June, 1841.

As a man, Mr. Clark was universally esteemed. His warm heart, frank
nature, and social qualities endeared him to all his friends, and he has
left a blank in the little circle which he was wont to grace. To the
last he enjoyed the society of his friends. He breathed to them the wish
that no venomous tongue should be suffered to insult his fame when he
was dead, and thus rob his orphan boy of his father’s only heritage—his
name. God knows, the heart that could entertain aught evil towards the
departed deserves not the companionship or sympathy of mankind. The
dying moments of Mr. Clark were filled with the memory of his lost
wife—to whom he has written some of the sweetest verses in the
language—and his parting request was that he should be buried by her
side, at the same hour of the day at which she was interred. Need we say
his request was religiously fulfilled?

The closing days of the poet are finely drawn in the following lines,
for which we are indebted to Robert Morris, Esq., another of our valued
contributors, and one of the circle of Mr. Clark’s friends. They need no
eulogy at our hands. They will commend themselves to all who loved the
departed, or admire true poetry.

 A DEATH SCENE IN THE CHAMBER OF A POET.

  Come hither, friend! My voice grows thin and weak—
  My limbs are feeble, and I feel that Death
  Will soon achieve his conquest. Look not sad!
  The being best beloved has gone before—
  Why should _I_ tarry here? An angel form
  Beckons me on. Amid my morning dreams,
  I hear _her_ voice and see her starry eyes!
  That voice so full of woman tenderness;
  Those eyes that mirrored an unsullied soul!
  Then look not sad! My peace is made with God,
  And in the hope, which is the dawn of Heaven—
  The Christian’s hope—I will a little hence
  On my mysterious journey. Soon—how soon!—
  The truth will break upon me! The dim stars,
  Which now, this mellow night, like sands of gold,
  Glitter amid the distance—it may be
  That I may pass their confines on my course;
  That peopled worlds may greet my spirit’s gaze!
  Look, gentle friend, how brightly do they shine!
  How like to living things! How beautiful!
  How more than wonderful the mighty hand
  That placed them there, all radiant with light!

    Oh, God! in whose high presence soon my soul
    Will stand uncovered, what a worm am I
    Amid thy wonders vast and infinite!
    And yet I feel th’ immortal burns within—
    The quenchless light of an eternal soul!
    Yes! as the frame decays; as this frail dust
    Sinks to its native earth, the spirit’s wings
    Unfold, and all within seems eager for the flight!

  My voice is almost lost. Friend!—faithful friend,
  Long tried and well beloved—before I leave
  This summer scene of earth, yon fields and flowers—
  Alas! like youth and life, they soon will fade—
  I have a boon to crave. My boy, my only boy,
  Will soon be fatherless! Forgive this tear;
  It is among the last.

                        Hither, my child!

  There lives his mother’s image—her soft eyes,
  So large and full and dove-like; her brown hair,
  So rich and silken, and her cheek of rose!
  Oh! what a fate was hers! But yesterday,
  All youth and hope and beauty; and to-day,
  A banquet for the cold and creeping worm!
  But far above the grave her spirit dwells,
  Among the white-robed circles of the blest:
  In that bright clime where Faith and Fancy soar,
  And Love and Hope and Joy walk hand in hand.

  But to the boon.
                    I would not, when my dust
  Lies still and cold, leave bitter memories.
  I would not leave a wound in any breast,
  But fain with all the world would die in peace,
  Forgiving all, and asking all forgiveness.
  The only legacy that I may leave
  My idol boy, is a weak dream of fame:
  A phantom that has cheated me of life,
  And fails me now, I fear, before the grave.
  And yet, how that wild dream, tempting and bright,
  Has spanned my youthful life, as does the bow
  The summer storm! And now, e’en while I gaze.
  And feel the mortal passing slowly off,
  How dust still clings to dust, and a desire
  Burns at my breast, that justice may be done
  My memory!—that he, in after time—
  (Poor child, how little recks he of this scene!—)
  May speak his father’s name with love and pride.

       *    *    *     *     *      *     *     *      *      *

  A hand—a friendly hand!—mine eyes grow dim—

    His pale lip quivered, and the hectic tinge
    Passed from his hollow cheeks. And see, he sleeps!
    Alas! ’tis Death’s unchangeable repose—
    The spirit of the poet soars to God!


Mr. Clark possessed poetic talents of no ordinary merit. He belonged to
the school of Goldsmith and Pope, rather than to that of Byron or
Coleridge. He was more remarkable for sweetness than passion, for melody
than force, for fancy than imagination. The rank to which he belonged
was not the highest, but in that rank he occupied one of the foremost
stations. He was distinguished for his grace and euphony. Few men have
written so elegantly as Mr. Clark; no man has excelled him in the melody
of numbers. He obviously devoted the greatest attention to the
composition of poetry, and no piece left his hand until it had received
its utmost polish. There was a deep abiding sense of religion in his
compositions which commend them to every heart. He was indeed almost the
first poet to render the poetry of religion attractive; for Young,
Cowper, Wordsworth, and even Milton, too often fail in this. But Mr.
Clark was always successful, breathing, as he did, aspirations after a
higher and better state of being, and emulating, if that were possible,
the rapt enthusiasm of the Hebrew poet, when dreaming of the “better
land”—that land to which he has now followed his long-wept wife. Yes!
he has gone—

    “Gone to his Heavenly Father’s rest!
      The flowers of Eden round him blowing,
    And on his ear the murmur blest
      Of Siloa’s waters softly flowing!—
    Beneath that Tree of Life which gives
      To all the earth its healing leaves!
    In the white robe of angels clad,
      And wandering by that sacred river,
    Whose streams of loveliness make glad
      The city of our God forever!”

Why should we mourn his loss? This is no home for the weary spirit.
Earth has nothing to satisfy the immortal mind; but, with a reach after
higher and holier things, it struggles to be away, satisfied only when
roaming free through the wide expanse of Eternity.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                   FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER,


                    A BALLAD—WRITTEN BY LORD BYRON.

                           MUSIC COMPOSED BY
                         J. DODSLEY HUMPHREYS.

          _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.

[Illustration: musical score]

    Farewell if ever fondest prayer for others’ weal availed on high,
    Mine will not all be lost in air,
    But waft, but waft thy name beyond the sky.
    ’Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh,
    Oh more than

[Illustration: musical score continued]

    tears of blood can tell,
    When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,
    Are in that word farewell.
    Are in that word farewell, farewell,
    When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,
    Are in that word, are in that word farewell.

    These lips are mute, these eyes are dry,
      But in my breast and in my brain,
    Awake the pangs that pass not by,
      The thought, the thought that ne’er shall sleep again.
    My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
      Though grief and passion there rebel,
    I only know we lov’d in vain.
      I only feel farewell,
    I only feel farewell, farewell,
      I only know I loved in vain,
    I only feel, I only feel farewell.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          Sports and Pastimes.


                                ANGLING.

The prevailing attributes and domestic economy of fishes may be
described as exactly the reverse of those of birds. These gay and airy
creatures possess the power of surveying distinctly, at a glance, an
immeasurable extent of horizon; their acute perception of sound
appreciates all intonations, and their glad voices are exquisitely
skilled in their production. Though their bills are hard, and their
bodies closely covered by down and feathers, they are by no means
deficient in the sense of touch. They enjoy all the delights of conjugal
and parental affection, and perform their incumbent duties with
devotedness and courage. They cherish and defend their offspring, and
will sometimes even die in their defence; and of all the wonderful
labors of instinctive art, none is so beautiful as the formation of
their mossy dwellings. With what deep and continuous affection does the
female brood over her cherished treasures!—how unwearied is the gallant
male in his tender assiduities, and with what melodious love does he
outpour that rich and varied song by which he seeks to soothe her
sedentary task!

    “Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods!”

But close at hand, on that umbrageous bough, sits the fond partner of
his joys and sorrows, so that it is in no spirit of selfish solitary
musing that he ever murmurs, by woodland stream and shadow-haunted
brook, “a music sweeter than their own.” The slender winged and glossy
plumaged swallow, which skims the verdure of the new-mown meadow, or
dimples the surface of the breezeless lake—the ponderous but
giant-pinioned eagle, winging his way from distant isles, o’er waters
glittering with redundant life—the proud, far-sighted falcon, which,
launching from some hoar cliff or lightning-scathed peak,

    “Doth dally with the wind, and scorn the sun,”—

the wild and fearful lapwing, with graceful crest and dark dilated eye,
are each and all enslaved for many a long-enduring season by this love
of offspring, and toil in its support from dewy morning until latest
eve.

But it is far otherwise with our voiceless dwellers in the deep, who
exhibit but few attachments, are conversant with no interchanging
language, and cherish no warm affections. Constructing no dwellings,
they merely shelter themselves from danger among the cavernous rocks of
the ocean, in the silent depths of lakes, or beneath the murky shade of
the overhanging banks of rivers; and the cravings of hunger alone seem
to exercise a frequent or influential action over their monotonous
movements. We must not, however, conceive that the life of fishes is not
one of enjoyment, for we know that the Great Creator “careth for all his
creatures;” and it ought perhaps rather to be said that we cannot
appreciate the nature of their feelings, than that they are in any way
fore-doomed to a negation of pleasure. Assuredly, however, the hand of
nature has been most prodigal in bestowing on their external aspect
every variety of adornment. Their special forms are infinite, their
proportions often most elegant, their colors lively and diversified—and
nothing seems wanting, either in their shape or structure, to excite the
unfeigned admiration of mankind. Indeed, it almost appears as if this
prodigality of beauty was intended solely for such an end. The
brightness of metallic splendor, the sparkling brilliancy of precious
gems, the milder effulgence of the hues of flowers, all combine to
signalize fishes as among the most beautiful objects of creation. When
newly withdrawn from their native element, or still gliding submerged
amid its liquid coolness, their colors, fixed or iridescent, are seen
mingling in spots, or bands, or broader flashes—always elegant and
symmetrical, sometimes richly contrasted, sometimes gradually softened
into each other, and in all cases harmonizing with a chaste fulness of
effect which Titian and Rubens might envy, but could never equal. For
what reason, then, it has been asked, has all this adornment been
bestowed on creatures which can scarcely perceive each other amid the
dim perpetual twilight of the deep? Shakspeare has already said that
there are “more things in _heaven_ and _earth_ than are dreamt of in our
philosophy;” and we fear it is no answer to the foregoing question to
add, that the same observation applies with even greater truth to the
“_waters beneath the earth_.”


                    NUTRITION AND GROWTH OF FISHES.

The nutritive functions of fishes follow the same order of progression
as those of the other classes of the vertebrated kingdom. They seize,
and in some measure divide, their food with their teeth; they digest it
in the stomach, from whence it passes into the intestinal canal, where
it receives a supply of bile from the liver, and frequently a liquid
similar to that of the pancreas; the nutritive juices, absorbed by
vessels analogous to lacteals, and probably taken up in part also
directly by the veins, are mingled with the venous blood which is
flowing towards the heart, from whence it is pushed to the branchiæ, in
which, coming in contact with the water, it is converted into arterial
blood, and then proceeds to the nourishment of the whole body.

Fishes are in general extremely voracious, and the rule of “eat or be
eaten,” applies to them with unusual force. They are almost constantly
engaged either in the active pursuit or patient waiting for their
prey—their degree of power in its capture depending, of course, on the
dimensions of the mouth and throat, and the strength of the teeth and
jaws. If the teeth are sharp and curved, they are capable of seizing and
securing either a large and fleshy bait, or the slenderest and most
agile animal; if these parts are broad and strong, they are able to
bruise the hardest aliment; if they are feeble or almost wanting, they
are only serviceable in procuring some inert or unresisting prey. Fishes
indeed, in most instances, show but little choice in the selection of
their food, and their digestive powers are so strong and rapid as
speedily to dissolve all animal substances. They greedily swallow other
fishes, notwithstanding the sharp spines or bony ridges with which they
may be armed; they attack and devour crabs and shell-fish, gulping them
entire, without the least regard to the feelings of their families; they
do not object occasionally to swallow the young even of their own
species, and the more powerful kinds carry their warfare into other
kingdoms of nature, and revel on rats, reptiles and young ducklings, to
say nothing, gentle reader, of the ferocious shark, which not seldom
makes a meal even of the lord of the creation. A particular friend of
ours has his right leg in the West Indies, in consequence of an act of
aggression alike unpleasant and uncalled for, and which a
Christian-minded pedestrian finds it easier to forgive than forget. The
species which live chiefly on vegetables are few in number, almost all
fishes preferring pork to green peas.

The growth of these creatures depends greatly on the nature and amount
of food, different individuals of the same species exhibiting a large
disparity in their dimensions. They grow less rapidly in small ponds or
shallow streams, than in large lakes and deep rivers. We once kept a
minnow, little more than half an inch long, in a small glass vessel for
a period of two years, during which time there was no perceptible
increase in its dimensions. Had it continued in its native stream,
subjected to the fattening influence of a continuous flow of water, and
a consequent increase in the quantity and variety of its natural food,
its cubic dimensions would probably have been twenty times greater; yet
it must have attained, long prior to the lapse of a couple of years, to
the usual period of the adult state. The growth itself seems to
continue, under favorable circumstances, for a length of time, and we
can scarcely set bounds to, certainly we know not with precision, the
utmost range of the specific size of fishes. Salmon sometimes attain a
weight of eighty pounds and upwards, and the giant pike of
Kaiserslautern is alleged to have measured nineteen feet, and to have
weighed 350 pounds. No doubt, an incorrect allegation does not in any
way increase the actual size of fishes, and few people now-a-days can
take exact cognizance of what was done at Mannheim in the year 1497;
but, even in these degenerate days, amid our own translucent waters, and
among species in no way remarkable for their ordinary dimensions, we
ever and anon meet with ancient individuals which vastly exceed the
usual weight and measure of their kind. But, in spite of this, let no
angler, whether in the bloom of early youth, the power of matured
manhood, or with the silver locks of “hoar antiquity” above his wrinkled
brow, ever induce within himself, or express to others, the belief that,
at all times and places, he is perpetually catching enormous trouts in
vast numbers, because we happen to know that this is not the case. We
don’t insist upon any one weighing every fish he captures, but we insist
that no one, after jerking out a few pair, will maintain next morning,
or even that very night, that he has had a most toilsome but very
glorious day, and has killed five dozen and four of the finest trouts
the human eye ever gazed upon. “All men are liars”—and several
anglers—is a proposition the exact import of which depends much on the
mode of construction.


                   THE MUSCULAR MOVEMENTS OF FISHES.

The vertebral column, composed of numerous articulations, united by
cartilages which permit of certain movements, curves with great facility
from side to side; but the vertical motion is much more restricted,
chiefly in consequence of the projection of the upper and under spiny
processes of the vertebræ. The great organ of movement in all fishes is
the tail. The muscles, by which it is brought into play, extend in
lengthened masses on either side of the vertebral column. The body,
being supported chiefly by the swimming bladder, (which, however, is
absent in several species), is propelled forward by the rapid flexure of
the extremity acting laterally upon the resistance offered by the water.
Generally speaking, neither the pectoral nor the ventral fins are of any
material use during swift progressive motion; they rather serve to
balance the body, or to aid its gentler movements while in a state of
comparative repose. In _flying fishes_, as they are called, the pectoral
fins are of such great length and expansion as to support these
creatures in the air; and the strength of muscular action might probably
suffice even for a longer flight, but for the necessity of constant
moisture for the purposes of respiration. The drying of the gills in an
individual of this class is attended by results analogous to those
produced in the case of a land animal; and a flying fish is obliged to
descend to respire, in like manner as a swimming quadruped, or disguised
mammiferous animal, as we may term a whale, is under the necessity of
ascending for the same purpose.

The heads of fishes exercise but a slight movement independent of the
rest of the body, but the jaws, opercular bones, branchial arches, and
other parts, are very free in their motions. The muscles, like those of
other vertebrated animals, are composed of fleshy fibres more or less
colored, and of tendonous fibres of a white or silvery aspect. With the
exception, however, of certain spinal muscles, which are sometimes of a
deep red, the flesh of fishes is much paler than that of quadrupeds, and
still more so than that of birds. In several species it is even entirely
white.


                THE NERVOUS SYSTEM AND SENSES OF FISHES.

As fishes respire through the intervention of water alone, that is, as
they can scarcely avail themselves, in rendering their blood _arterial_,
of anything more than the small portion of oxygen contained in the air
which is suspended in the water, their blood is necessarily cold, and
the general energy and activity of their senses are by no means so great
as those of quadrupeds and birds. Their brain also, though of similar
composition, is proportionally much smaller, whether as compared with
the total size of the body, with the mass of nerves which proceed from
it, or with the cavity of the cranium in which it is contained. In the
turbot (_Gadus lota_) for example, the weight of the brain to that of
the spinal marrow is ascertained to be as 8 to 12, and to that of the
whole body as 1 to 720; and it has been ascertained that the brain of a
pike, weighed in proportion to the whole body, is as 1 to 1305. Now, in
many small birds, the brain, viewed in relation to the rest of the body,
is equal to a twentieth part. In the generality of fishes, the spinal
cord extends along the whole of the caudal vertebræ, and it is thus that
it preponderates over the brain; but the fishing frog, or sea devil
(_Lophius piscatorius_), the moon fish (_Lampris guttatus_), and a few
others, form exceptions to this rule, the spinal marrow disappearing
before it reaches the eighth vertebra. The brain of fishes by no means
fills up the cavity of the cranium; and the interval between the _pia
mater_, which envelopes the brain itself, and the _dura mater_, which
lines the interior of the skull, is occupied only by a loose
cellulosity, frequently impregnated by an oil, or sometimes, as in the
sturgeon and thunny, by a more compact fatty matter. It has also been
remarked that this void between the cranium and the brain is much less
in young subjects than in adults; from which it may be inferred that the
brain does not increase in an equal proportion with the rest of the
body. Cuvier, in fact, has found its dimensions nearly the same in
different individuals—of the same species—of which the general size of
one was double that of the other.

Although we should be sorry to lower the subjects of our present
observation in the estimation of society, we think it undeniable that,
of all vertebrated animals, fishes exhibit the smallest apparent
symptoms of refined sensibility. Having no elastic air to act upon, they
are necessarily mute, or nearly so, and all the sweet sensations which
the delightful faculty of voice has called into being among the higher
tribes, are to them unknown. Their glazed, immovable eyes, their fixed
and bony faces, admit of no playful range in their physiognomical
expression, of no variation connected with emotion. Their ears,
surrounded on every side by the bones of the cranium, destitute of
external conch, without any internal cochlea, and composed merely of
certain sacks and membranous canals, scarcely suffice for the perception
of the loudest sounds. Yet they will sink affrighted into the darksome
depths of lakes, beneath the banks of rivers, or in oceans blue
profound, when the “sky lowers and mutters thunder,” and with elemental
fierceness the sheeted lightning flashes broad and bright above their
liquid dwellings.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _The Quacks of Helicon: A Satire. By_ L. A. Wilmer.
    _Philadelphia: Printed by J. W. Macclefield._

A satire, professedly such, at the present day, and especially by an
American writer, is a welcome novelty, indeed. We have really done very
little in the line upon this side of the Atlantic—nothing, certainly,
of importance—Trumbull’s clumsy poem and Halleck’s “Croakers” to the
contrary notwithstanding. Some things we have produced, to be sure,
which were excellent in the way of burlesque, without intending a
syllable that was not utterly solemn and serious. Odes, ballads, songs,
sonnets, epics, and epigrams, possessed of this unintentional
excellence, we could have no difficulty in designating by the dozen;
but, in the matter of directly-meant and genuine satire, it cannot be
denied that we are sadly deficient. Although, as a literary people,
however, we are not exactly Archilocuses—although we have no
pretensions to the ηχεηντες ιαμβοι—although, in short, we are no
satirists ourselves, there can be no question that we answer
sufficiently well as subjects for satire.

We repeat, that we are glad to see this book of Mr. Wilmer’s; first,
because it is something new under the sun; secondly, because, in many
respects, it is well executed; and, thirdly, because, in the universal
corruption and rigmarole amid which we gasp for breath, it is really a
pleasant thing to get even one accidental whiff of the unadulterated air
of _truth_.

The “Quacks of Helicon,” as a poem and otherwise, has many defects, and
these we shall have no scruple in pointing out—although Mr. Wilmer is a
personal friend of our own;[4] and we are happy and proud to say so—but
it has also many remarkable merits—merits which it will be quite
useless for those aggrieved by the satire—quite useless for any
_clique_, or set of _cliques_, to attempt to frown down, or to affect
not to see, or to feel, or to understand.

-----

[4] Of Mr. Poe’s.

Its prevalent blemishes are referrible chiefly to the leading sin of
_imitation_. Had the work been composed professedly in paraphrase of the
whole manner of the sarcastic epistles of the times of Dryden and Pope,
we should have pronounced it the most ingenious and truthful thing of
the kind upon record. So close is the copy, that it extends to the most
trivial points—for example to the old forms of punctuation. The turns
of phraseology, the tricks of rhythm, the arrangement of the paragraphs,
the general conduct of the satire—everything—all—are Dryden’s. We
cannot deny, it is true, that the satiric model of the days in question
is insusceptible of improvement, and that the modern author who deviates
therefrom, must necessarily sacrifice something of merit at the shrine
of originality. Neither can we shut our eyes to the fact, that the
imitation, in the present case, has conveyed, in full spirit, the higher
qualities, as well as, in rigid letter, the minor elegances and general
peculiarities of the author of “Absalom and Achitophel.” We have here
the bold, vigorous, and sonorous verse, the biting sarcasm, the pungent
epigrammatism, the unscrupulous directness, as of old. Yet it will not
do to forget that Mr. Wilmer has been _shown how_ to accomplish these
things. He is thus only entitled to the praise of a close observer, and
of a thoughtful and skilful copyist. The images are, to be sure, his
own. They are neither Pope’s, nor Dryden’s, nor Rochester’s, nor
Churchill’s—but they are moulded in the identical mould used by these
satirists.

This servility of imitation has seduced our author into errors which his
better sense should have avoided. He sometimes mistakes intention; at
other times he copies faults, confounding them with beauties. In the
opening of the poem, for example, we find the lines—

    Against usurpers, Olney, I declare
    A righteous, just, and patriotic war.

The rhymes _war_ and _declare_ are here adopted from Pope, who employs
them frequently; but it should have been remembered that the modern
relative pronunciation of the two words differs materially from the
relative pronunciation of the era of the “Dunciad.”

We are also sure that the gross obscenity, the filth—we can use no
gentler name—which disgraces the “Quacks of Helicon,” cannot be the
result of innate impurity in the mind of the writer. It is but a part of
the slavish and indiscriminating imitation of the Swift and Rochester
school. It has done the book an irreparable injury, both in a moral and
pecuniary view, without effecting anything whatever on the score of
sarcasm, vigor or wit. “Let what is to be said, be said plainly.” True;
but let nothing vulgar be _ever_ said, or conceived.

In asserting that this satire, even in its mannerism, has imbued itself
with the full spirit of the polish and of the pungency of Dryden, we
have already awarded it high praise. But there remains to be mentioned
the far loftier merit of speaking fearlessly the truth, at an epoch when
truth is out of fashion, and under circumstances of social position
which would have deterred almost any man in our community from a similar
Quixotism. For the publication of the “Quacks of Helicon,”—a poem which
brings under review, by name, most of our prominent _literati_, and
treats them, generally, as they deserve (what treatment could be more
bitter?)—for the publication of this attack, Mr. Wilmer, whose
subsistence lies in his pen, has little to look for—apart from the
silent respect of those at once honest and timid—but the most malignant
open or covert persecution. For this reason, and because it is the truth
which he has spoken, do we say to him from the bottom of our hearts,
“God speed!”

We repeat it:—_it is_ the truth which he has spoken, and who shall
contradict us? He has said unscrupulously what every reasonable man
among us has long known to be “as true as the Pentateuch”—that, as a
literary people, we are one vast perambulating humbug. He has asserted
that we are _clique_-ridden, and who does not smile at the obvious
truism of that assertion? He maintains that chicanery is, with us, a far
surer road than talent to distinction in letters. Who gainsays this? The
corrupt nature of our ordinary criticism has become notorious. Its
powers have been prostrated by its own arm. The intercourse between
critic and publisher, as it now almost universally stands, is comprised
either in the paying and pocketing of black mail, as the price of a
simple forbearance, or in a direct system of petty and contemptible
bribery, properly so called—a system even more injurious than the
former to the true interests of the public, and more degrading to the
buyers and sellers of good opinion, on account of the more positive
character of the service here rendered for the consideration received.
We laugh at the idea of any denial of our assertions upon this topic;
they are infamously true. In the charge of general corruption there are
undoubtedly many noble exceptions to be made. There are, indeed, some
very few editors, who, maintaining an entire independence, will receive
no books from publishers at all, or who receive them with a perfect
understanding, on the part of these latter, that an unbiassed _critique_
will be given. But these cases are insufficient to have much effect on
the popular mistrust: a mistrust heightened by late exposure of the
machinations of _coteries_ in New York—_coteries_ which, at the bidding
of leading booksellers, manufacture, as required from time to time, a
pseudo-public opinion by wholesale, for the benefit of any little hanger
on of the party, or pettifogging protector of the firm.

We speak of these things in the bitterness of scorn. It is unnecessary
to cite instances, where one is found in almost every issue of a book.
It is needless to call to mind the desperate case of Fay—a case where
the pertinacity of the effort to gull—where the obviousness of the
attempt at forestalling a judgment—where the wofully over-done
be-Mirrorment of that man-of-straw, together with the pitiable platitude
of his production, proved a dose somewhat too potent for even the
well-prepared stomach of the mob. We say it is supererogatory to dwell
upon “Norman Leslie,” or other by-gone follies, when we have, before our
eyes, hourly instances of the machinations in question. To so great an
extent of methodical assurance has the _system_ of puffery arrived, that
publishers, of late, have made no scruple of keeping on hand an
assortment of commendatory notices, prepared by their men of all work,
and of sending these notices around to the multitudinous papers within
their influence, done up within the fly-leaves of the book. The
grossness of these base attempts, however, has not escaped indignant
rebuke from the more honorable portion of the press; and we hail these
symptoms of restiveness under the yoke of unprincipled ignorance and
quackery (strong only in combination) as the harbinger of a better era
for the interests of real merit, and of the national literature as a
whole.

It has become, indeed the plain duty of each individual connected with
our periodicals, heartily to give whatever influence he possesses, to
the good cause of integrity and the truth. The results thus attainable
will be found worthy his closest attention and best efforts. We shall
thus frown down all conspiracies to foist inanity upon the public
consideration at the obvious expense of every man of talent who is not a
member of a _clique_ in power. We may even arrive, in time, at that
desirable point from which a distinct view of our men of letters may be
obtained, and their respective pretensions adjusted, by the standard of
a rigorous and self-sustaining criticism alone. That their several
positions are as yet properly settled; that the posts which a vast
number of them now hold are maintained by any better tenure than that of
the chicanery upon which we have commented, will be asserted by none but
the ignorant, or the parties who have best right to feel an interest in
the “good old condition of things.” No two matters can be more radically
different than the reputation of some of our prominent _litterateurs_,
as gathered from the mouths of the people, (who glean it from the
paragraphs of the papers,) and the same reputation as deduced from the
private estimate of intelligent and educated men. We do not advance this
fact as a new discovery. Its truth, on the contrary, is the subject, and
has long been so, of every-day witticism and mirth.

Why not? Surely there can be few things more ridiculous than the general
character and assumptions of the ordinary critical notices of new books!
An editor, sometimes without the shadow of the commonest
attainment—often without brains, always without time—does not scruple
to give the world to understand that he is in the _daily_ habit of
critically reading and deciding upon a flood of publications one tenth
of whose title-pages he may possibly have turned over, three fourths of
whose contents would be Hebrew to his most desperate efforts at
comprehension, and whose entire mass and amount, as might be
mathematically demonstrated, would be sufficient to occupy, in the most
cursory perusal, the attention of some ten or twenty readers for a
month! What he wants in plausibility, however, he makes up in
obsequiousness; what he lacks in time he supplies in temper. He is the
most easily pleased man in the world. He admires everything, from the
big Dictionary of Noah Webster to the last diamond edition of Tom Thumb.
Indeed his sole difficulty is in finding tongue to express his delight.
Every pamphlet is a miracle—every book in boards is an epoch in
letters. His phrases, therefore, get bigger and bigger every day, and,
if it were not for talking Cockney, we might call him a “regular swell.”

Yet in the attempt at getting definite information in regard to any one
portion of our literature, the merely general reader, or the foreigner,
will turn in vain from the lighter to the heavier journals. But it is
not our intention here to dwell upon the radical, antique, and
systematized rigmarole of our Quarterlies. The articles here are
anonymous. Who writes?—who causes to be written? Who but an ass will
put faith in tirades which _may_ be the result of personal hostility, or
in panegyrics which nine times out of ten may be laid, directly or
indirectly, to the charge of the author himself? It is in the favor of
these saturnine pamphlets that they contain, now and then, a good essay
_de omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis_, which may be looked into, without
decided somnolent consequences, at any period not immediately subsequent
to dinner. But it is useless to expect criticism from periodicals called
“Reviews” from never reviewing. Besides, all men know, or should know,
that these books are sadly given to verbiage. It is a part of their
nature, a condition of their being, a point of their faith. A veteran
reviewer loves the safety of generalities, and is therefore rarely
particular. “Words, words, words” are the secret of his strength. He has
one or two ideas of his own, and is both wary and fussy in giving them
out. His wit lies with his truth, in a well, and there is always a world
of trouble in getting it up. He is a sworn enemy to all things simple
and direct. He gives no ear to the advice of the giant
Moulineau—“_Belier, mon ami, commencez au commencement._” He either
jumps at once into the middle of his subject, or breaks in at a back
door, or sidles up to it with the gait of a crab. No other mode of
approach has an air of sufficient profundity. When fairly into it,
however, he becomes dazzled with the scintillations of his own wisdom,
and is seldom able to see his way out. Tired of laughing at his antics,
or frightened at seeing him flounder, the reader at length shuts him up,
with the book. “What song the Syrens sang,” says Sir Thomas Browne, “or
what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though
puzzling questions, are not beyond _all_ conjecture”—but it would
puzzle Sir Thomas, backed by Achilles and all the Syrens in Heathendom,
to say, in nine cases out of ten, _what is the object_ of a
thorough-going Quarterly Reviewer.

Should the opinions promulgated by our press at large be taken, in their
wonderful aggregate, as an evidence of what American literature
absolutely is, (and it may be said that, in general, they are really so
taken,) we shall find ourselves the most enviable set of people upon the
face of the earth. Our fine writers are legion. Our very atmosphere is
redolent of genius; and we, the nation, are a huge, well-contented
chameleon, grown pursy by inhaling it. We are _teretes et
rotundi_—enwrapped in excellence. All our poets are Miltons, neither
mute nor inglorious; all our poetesses are “American Hemanses;” nor will
it do to deny that all our novelists are great Knowns or great Unknowns,
and that every body who writes, in every possible and impossible
department, is the admirable Crichton, or at least the admirable
Crichton’s ghost. We are thus in a glorious condition, and will remain
so until forced to disgorge our ethereal honors. In truth, there is some
danger that the jealousy of the Old World will interfere. It cannot long
submit to that outrageous monopoly of “all the decency and all the
talent” in which the gentlemen of the press give such undoubted
assurance of our being so busily engaged.

But we feel angry with ourselves for the jesting tone of our
observations upon this topic. The prevalence of the spirit of puffery is
a subject far less for merriment than for disgust. Its truckling, yet
dogmatical character—its bold, unsustained, yet self-sufficient and
wholesale laudation—is becoming, more and more, an insult to the common
sense of the community. Trivial as it essentially is, it has yet been
made the instrument of the grossest abuse in the elevation of
imbecility, to the manifest injury, to the utter ruin, of true merit. Is
there any man of good feeling and of ordinary understanding—is there
one single individual among all our readers—who does not feel a thrill
of bitter indignation, apart from any sentiment of mirth, as he calls to
mind instance after instance of the purest, of the most unadulterated
quackery in letters, which has risen to a high post in the apparent
popular estimation, and which still maintains it, by the sole means of a
blustering arrogance, or of a busy wriggling conceit, or of the most
barefaced plagiarism, or even through the simple immensity of its
assumptions—assumptions not only unopposed by the press at large, but
absolutely supported in proportion to the vociferous clamor with which
they are made—in exact accordance with their utter baselessness and
untenability? We should have no trouble in pointing out, to-day, some
twenty or thirty so-called literary personages, who, if not idiots, as
we half think them, or if not hardened to all sense of shame by a long
course of disingenuousness, will now blush, in the perusal of these
words, through consciousness of the shadowy nature of that purchased
pedestal upon which they stand—will now tremble in thinking of the
feebleness of the breath which will be adequate to the blowing it from
beneath their feet. With the help of a hearty good will, even _we_ may
yet tumble them down.

So firm, through a long endurance, has been the hold taken upon the
popular mind (at least so far as we may consider the popular mind
reflected in ephemeral letters) by the laudatory system which we have
deprecated, that what is, in its own essence, a vice, has become endowed
with the appearance, and met with the reception of a virtue. Antiquity,
as usual, has lent a certain degree of speciousness even to the absurd.
So continuously have we puffed, that we have at length come to think
puffing the duty, and plain speaking the dereliction. What we began in
gross error, we persist in through habit. Having adopted, in the earlier
days of our literature, the untenable idea that this literature, as a
whole, could be advanced by an indiscriminate approbation bestowed on
its every effort—having adopted this idea, we say, without attention to
the obvious fact that praise of all was bitter although negative censure
to the few alone deserving, and that the only result of the system, in
the fostering way, would be the fostering of folly—we now continue our
vile practices through the supineness of custom, even while, in our
national self-conceit, we repudiate that necessity for patronage and
protection in which originated our conduct. In a word, the press
throughout the country has not been ashamed to make head against the
very few bold attempts at independence which have, from time to time,
been made in the face of the reigning order of things. And if, in one,
or perhaps two, insulated cases, the spirit of severe truth, sustained
by an unconquerable will, was not to be so put down, then, forthwith,
were private chicaneries set in motion; then was had resort, on the part
of those who considered themselves injured by the severity of criticism,
(and who were so, if the just contempt of every ingenuous man is
injury,) resort to arts of the most virulent indignity, to untraceable
slanders, to ruthless assassination in the dark. We say these things
were done, while the press in general looked on, and, with a full
understanding of the wrong perpetrated, spoke not against the wrong. The
idea had absolutely gone abroad—had grown up little by little into
toleration—that attacks however just, upon a literary reputation
however obtained, however untenable, were well retaliated by the basest
and most unfounded traduction of personal fame. But is this an age—is
this a day—in which it can be necessary even to advert to such
considerations as that the book of the author is the property of the
public, and that the issue of the book is the throwing down of the
gauntlet to the reviewer—to the reviewer whose duty is the plainest;
the duty not even of approbation, or of censure, or of silence, at his
own will, but at the sway of those sentiments and of those opinions
which are derived from the author himself, through the medium of his
written and published words? True criticism is the reflection of the
thing criticised upon the spirit of the critic.

But _à nos moutons_—to the “Quacks of Helicon.” This satire has many
faults besides those upon which we have commented. The tide, for
example, is not sufficiently distinctive, although otherwise good. It
does not confine the subject to _American_ quacks, while the work does.
The two concluding lines enfeeble instead of strengthening the _finale_,
which would have been exceedingly pungent without them. The individual
portions of the thesis are strung together too much at random—a natural
sequence is not always preserved—so that although the lights of the
picture are often forcible, the whole has what, in artistical parlance,
is termed an accidental and spotty appearance. In truth, the parts of
the poem have evidently been composed each by each, as separate themes,
and afterwards fitted into the general satire, in the best manner
possible.

But a more reprehensible sin than any or than all of these is yet to be
mentioned—the sin of indiscriminate censure. Even here Mr. Wilmer has
erred through imitation. He has held in view the sweeping denunciations
of the Dunciad, and of the later (abortive) satire of Byron. No one in
his senses can deny the justice of the general charges of corruption in
regard to which we have just spoken from the text of our author. But are
there _no_ exceptions? We should indeed blush if there were not. And is
there _no_ hope? Time will show. We cannot do everything in a day—_Non
se gano Zamora en un ora_. Again, it cannot be gainsaid that the greater
number of those who hold high places in our poetical literature are
absolute nincompoops—fellows alike innocent of reason and of rhyme. But
neither are we _all_ brainless, nor is the devil himself so black as he
is painted. Mr. Wilmer must read the chapter in Rabelais’ _Gargantua_,
“_de ce qu’ est signifié par les couleurs blanc et bleu_”—for there is
_some_ difference after all. It will not do in a civilized land to run
a-muck like a Malay. Mr. Morris _has_ written good songs. Mr. Bryant is
not _all_ a fool. Mr. Willis is not _quite_ an ass. Mr. Longfellow
_will_ steal, but perhaps he cannot help it, (for we have heard of such
things,) and then it must not be denied that _nil tetigit quod non
ornavit_.

The fact is that our author, in the rank exuberance of his zeal, seems
to think as little of discrimination as the Bishop of Autun[5] did of
the Bible. Poetical “things in general” are the windmills at which he
spurs his rozinante. He as often tilts at what is true as at what is
false; and thus his lines are like the mirrors of the temples of Smirna,
which represent the fairest images as deformed. But the talent, the
fearlessness, and especially the _design_ of this book, will suffice to
save it even from that dreadful damnation of “silent contempt” to which
editors throughout the country, if we are not very much mistaken, will
endeavor, one and all, to consign it.

-----

[5] Talleyrand.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Biography and Poetical Remains of the late Margaret Miller
    Davidson. By_ Washington Irving. _Philadelphia: Lea and
    Blanchard._

The name of Lucretia Davidson is familiar to all readers of Poetry.
Dying at the early age of seventeen, she has been rendered famous not
less, and certainly not more, by her own precocious genius than by three
memorable biographies—one by President Morse, of the American Society
of Arts, another by Miss Sedgwick, and a third by Robert Southey. Mr.
Irving had formed an acquaintance with some of her relatives, and thus,
while, in Europe, took great interest in all that was said or written of
his young countrywoman. Upon his return to America, he called upon Mrs.
Davidson, and then, in 1833, first saw the subject of the memoir now
before us—a fairy-like child of eleven. Three years afterwards he met
with her again, and then found her in delicate health. Three years
having again elapsed, the MSS. which form the basis of the present
volume, were placed in his hands by Mrs. Davidson, as all that remained
of her daughter.

Few books have interested us more profoundly. Yet the interest does not
appertain solely to Margaret. “In fact the narrative,” says Mr. Irving,
“will be found almost as illustrative of the character of the mother as
of the child; they were singularly identified in taste, feeling, and
pursuits; tenderly entwined together by maternal and filial affection,
they reflected an inexpressibly touching grace and interest upon each
other by this holy relationship, and, to my mind it would be marring one
of the most beautiful and affecting groups in modern literature, to
sunder them.” In these words the biographer conveys no more than a just
idea of the exquisite loveliness of the picture here presented to view.

The MSS. handed Mr. Irving, have been suffered, in great measure, to
tell their own thrilling tale. There has been no injudicious attempt at
mere authorship. The compiler has confined himself to chronological
arrangement of his memoranda, and to such simple and natural comments as
serve to bind rather than to illustrate where no illustration was
needed. These memoranda consist of relations by Mrs. Davidson of the
infantine peculiarities of her daughter, and of her habits and general
thoughts in more matured life, intermingled with letters from the young
poetess to intimate friends. There is also a letter from the bereaved
mother to Miss Sedgwick, detailing the last moments of the child—a
letter so full of all potent nature, so full of minute beauty and truth
and pathos, that to read it without tears would be to prove one’s self
less than human.

The “Poetical Remains” of this young creature, who perished (of
consumption) in her sixteenth year, occupy about two hundred pages of a
somewhat closely printed octavo. The longest poem is called “Lenore,”
and consists of some two thousand lines, varying in metre from the
ordinary octo-syllabic, to the four-footed, or twelve-syllabled iambic.
The story, which is a romantic love-tale, not ill-conceived in its
incidents, is told with a skill which might put more practised bards to
the blush, and with occasional bursts of the truest poetic fire. But
although as indicative of her future power, it is the most important, as
it is the longest of her productions, yet as a whole it is not equal to
some of her shorter compositions. It was written not long before her
death, at the age of fifteen, and (as we glean from the biography) after
patient reflection, with much care, and with a high resolve to do
something for fame. As the work of so mere a child, it is unquestionably
wonderful. Its _length_, viewed in connection with its keeping, its
unity, its adaptation, and completeness, will impress the metaphysician
most forcibly, when surveying the capacities of its author. Powers are
here brought into play which are the last to be matured. For fancy we
might have looked, and for the lower evidences of skill in a perfect
versification and the like, but hardly for what we see in Lenore.

Yet remarkable as this production is, from the pen of a girl of fifteen,
it is by no means so incomprehensible as are some of the shorter pieces.
We have known instances—rarely, to be sure—but still we have known
instances when finer poems in every respect than Lenore have been
written by children of as immature age—but we look around us in vain
for anything composed at eight years, which can bear comparison with the
lines subjoined—

            “TO MAMMA.

    “Farewell, dear mother, for a while
    I must resign thy plaintive smile;
    May angels watch thy couch of wo,
    And joys unceasing round thee flow.

    “May the almighty Father spread
    His sheltering wings above thy head.
    It is not long that we must part,
    Then cheer thy downcast drooping heart.

    “Remember, oh! remember me,
    Unceasing is my love for thee!
    When death shall sever earthly ties,
    When thy loved form all senseless lies,

    “Oh! that my form with thine could flee,
    And roam through wide eternity;
    Could tread with thee the courts of heaven,
    And count the brilliant stars of even.”

Nor are these stanzas, written at ten, in any degree less remarkable—

          “MY NATIVE LAKE.

    “Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream,
    Lit by the sun’s resplendent beam,
    Reflect each bending tree so light
    Upon thy bounding bosom bright.
    Could I but see thee once again,
    My own, my beautiful Champlain!

    “The little isles that deck thy breast,
    And calmly on thy bosom rest,
    How often, in my childish glee,
    I’ve sported round them, bright and free!
    Could I but see thee once again,
    My own, my beautiful Champlain!

    “How oft I’ve watch’d the fresh’ning shower
    Bending the summer tree and flower,
    And felt my little heart beat high
    As the bright rainbow graced the sky.
    Could I but see thee once again,
    My own, my beautiful Champlain!

    “And shall I never see thee more,
    My native lake, my much-loved shore
    And must I bid a long adieu,
    My dear, my infant home, to you?
    Shall I not see thee once again,
    My own, my beautiful Champlain?”

In the way of criticism upon these extraordinary compositions, Mr.
Irving has attempted little, and, in general, he seems more affected by
the loveliness and the purity of the child than even by the genius she
has evinced—however highly he may have estimated this latter. In
respect, however, to a poem entitled “My Sister Lucretia,”—he thus
speaks—“We have said that the example of her sister Lucretia was
incessantly before her, and no better proof can be given of it than in
the following lines, which breathe the heavenly aspirations of her pure
young spirit, _in strains to us quite unearthly. We may have read poetry
more_ _artificially perfect in its structure, but never any more truly
divine in its inspiration._” The nature of inspiration is
disputable—and we will not pretend to assert that Mr. Irving is in the
wrong. His words, however, in their hyperbole, do wrong to his subject,
and would be hyperbole still, if applied to the most exalted poets of
all time.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Incidents of Travel in Central America, etc. By_ John L.
    Stephens. _Two Volumes. New York: Harper and Brothers._

Mr. Stephens’ former book, “Incidents of Travel in Egypt, Arabia Petrea,
and Palestine,” was everywhere well received, and gained him high
reputation—reputation not altogether well deserved. No one can deny his
personal merits as a traveller, his enthusiasm, boldness, acuteness,
courage in danger, and perseverance under difficulty. His manner of
narration is also exceedingly pleasing; frank, unembarrassed and direct,
without pretension or attempt at effect. But neither were his
reflections characterised by profundity, nor had he that degree of
education which would have enabled him to travel, with benefit to
himself or to others, through regions involving so much of historical
importance as Egypt, and especially as Arabia Petrea. Through a
deficiency of previous information in regard to the moot points of this
classical ground, he suffered many things to pass unexamined, whose
examination would have thrown light upon history, and lustre upon his
own name. Our remarks here apply more particularly to the southern
regions of Arabia. In regard to Arabia Petrea, he committed some errors
of magnitude. Before entering upon his travels, he had been much
interested in Keith’s book upon the literal fulfilment of the Biblical
Prophecies. In this work the predictions of Isaiah, respecting the
ancient Idumea, are especially insisted upon, and the sentence, “_None
shall pass through thee forever and ever_,” quoted as a remarkable
instance of literal fulfilment. Dr. Keith states roundly that all
attempts at passing through Idumea have actually failed, and expresses
his belief that such will always be the case. Mr. Stephens resolved to
test this point, and congratulates himself and his readers upon the
success of his attempt at traversing the disputed region from one end to
the other. The truth is, however, that Arabia Petrea, through which he
unquestionably did pass, _is not at all the Idumea alluded to in the
prophecies_, this latter lying much farther to the eastward. The
traveller had contented himself with the usual understanding upon this
subject. In the matter of the prophecy, both he and Dr. Keith might have
spared themselves much trouble by an examination of the Biblical text in
the original, before founding a question upon it. In an article on this
head, which appeared in the New York Review, we pointed out an obvious
mistranslation in the Hebrew words of the prediction—a mistranslation
which proves Mr. Stephens to have thrown away his courage and labor. The
passage in Isaiah 34, 10, which is rendered in our bibles by the
sentence, “And none shall pass through thee forever and ever,” runs in
the original Hebrew thus—

    _Lenetsach metsachim ein over bah._

Literally—_Lenetsach_, for an eternity; _metsachim_, of eternities;
_ein_, not; _over_, moving about; _bah_, in it. For an eternity of
eternities (there shall) not (be any one) moving about in it. The
literal meaning of _bah_ is “in it,” and not “through it.” The
participle _over_, refers to one moving to and fro, or up and down, and
is the same phrase which is rendered “current,” as an epithet applied to
money, in Genesis, 23, 16. The prophet only intends to say that there
shall be no marks of life in the land, no living being there, no one
moving up and down in it. A similar mistranslation exists in regard to
the prophecy in Ezekiel, 35, 7, where death is threatened (according to
the usual construction) to any traveller who shall _pass through_. The
words are

    _Venathati eth har Seir leshimmamah ushemmamah, vehichrati
    mimmennu over vasal_—

Literally, “And I will give the mountain Seir for a desolation and a
desolation, and I will cut off from it him that goeth and him that
returneth.” By “him that goeth and him that returneth,” reference is had
to the passers to and fro, to the inhabitants. The prophet speaks only
of the general abandonment and desolation of the land.

We are not prepared to say that misunderstandings of this character will
be found in the present “Incidents of Travel.” Of Central America, and
her antiquities, Mr. Stephens may know, and no doubt does know, as much
as the most learned antiquarian. Here all is darkness. We have not yet
received from the Messieurs Harper a copy of the book, and can only
speak of its merits from general report, and from the cursory perusal
which has been afforded us by the politeness of a friend. The work is
certainly a magnificent one—perhaps the most interesting book of travel
ever published. An idea has gone abroad that the narrative is confined
to descriptions and drawings of Palenque; but this is very far from the
case. Mr. S. explored no less than six ruined cities. The “incidents,”
moreover, are numerous, and highly amusing. The traveller visited these
regions at a momentous time; during the civil war, in which Carrera and
Morazan were participants. He encountered many dangers, and his
hair-breadth escapes are particularly exciting.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Marrying Man. A Novel. By the Author of_ “Cousin Geoffrey.”
    _Two Volumes. Philadelphia: Lea and Blanchard._

This novel is _inscribed_ to Theodore Hook, who, we are given to
understand in the preface, was the _chaperon_ of “Cousin Geoffrey,” and
“The Old Bachelor,”—two books of which we indistinctly remember to have
heard. The “Marrying Man” is not badly written, and will answer
sufficiently well for the ordinary patrons of the circulating library.
Better books might have been re-published, no doubt; but this, we
presume, will sell, and thus serve its purpose.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Poems and Prose Writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield. Two
    Volumes. Vol. the First. Philadelphia. Printed for the
    Proprietor._

This is a large octavo, embracing, we believe, the principal poems of
Mr. Fairfield, if not all of them, and to be followed by a collection of
his prose writings. His prose, so far as we have had an opportunity of
judging, is scarcely worth reading. His poems have, in many respects,
merit—in some respects, merit of a high order. His themes are often
well selected, lofty, and giving evidence of the true spirit. But their
execution is always disfigured by a miserable verbiage—words meaning
nothing, although sounding like sense, like the nonsense verses of Du
Bartas.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Moneyed Man. By_ Horace Smith. _Two Volumes. Philadelphia:
    Lea and Blanchard._

This is a good book, and well worth the re-publication. The story is
skilfully constructed, and conveys an excellent moral. Horace Smith is
one of the authors of the “Rejected Addresses.” He is, perhaps, the most
erudite of all the English novelists, and unquestionably one of the best
in every respect. His style is peculiarly good.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Science of Government. Founded on Natural Law. By_ Clinton
    Roosevelt. _New York: Dean and Trevett. Philadelphia: Drew and
    Scammel._

Will _any_ one be kind enough to tell us who is Mr. Clinton Roosevelt?
We wish to know, of course. Mr. Roosevelt has published a little book.
It consists of a hundred little pages. Ten of these pages would make one
of our own. But a clever man may do a great thing in a small way, and
Mr. Roosevelt is unquestionably a clever man. For this we have his own
word, and who should know all about it better than he? Hear him!—

“Learned men have long contended that it was impossible for any human
intellect to grasp what has been here attempted;—that a Cyclopædia only
could embrace in one view all the arts and sciences which minister to
man’s necessity and happiness—and _that_ they give but little credit
for, as a Cyclopædia is a mere arbitary [we follow Mr. R.’s spelling as
in duty bound] alphabetical arrangement. _We_ [Mr. Roosevelt is a _we_]
would not say we have done even what we have without much toil and
sacrifice. It has cost the best ten years of the writer’s life to settle
its great principles, and give it form and substance. The great
interests of man were in a state of chaos, and this science [Mr.
Roosevelt’s] is to harmonise them, and run side by side with true
religion so far as that is meant ‘to feed the hungry, clothe the naked,
and make on earth peace and good will to man.’”

Ah!—we begin to breathe freely once more. We _had_ thought that the
world and all in it (this hot weather) were going to the
dogs,—“proceeding to the canines,” as Bilberry has it—but here is Mr.
Roosevelt, and we feel more assured. We entrench ourselves in security
behind his little book. “A larger work,” says he, “would have been more
imposing in appearance, but the truth is, large works and long speeches
are rarely made by men of powerful thought.” Never was anything more
true. “As to boasting,” he continues, very continuously, “the writer is
well aware that it is the worst policy imaginable.” In this opinion we
do not so entirely acquiesce. “The little man”—says he—the reader will
perceive that we are so rapt in admiration of Mr. Roosevelt that we
quote him at random—“The little man may say this book was not done
_secundum artem_—not nicely or critically.” He must be a _very_ little
man indeed, who would say so. _We_ think he has done it _quite_ nicely.
“My tone”—we here go on with Mr. Roosevelt—“may seem not strictly
according to _bien science_.” Oh, yes is it, Mr. Roosevelt; don’t
distress yourself now—it is, we assure you, very strictly according to
_bien science_, (good heavens!) and to every thing else.

“These remarks,” he observes, “are made that none may lightly damn the
work.” Of course; any one who should damn it lightly should be damned
himself. “But liberal criticism [ah! that is the thing,] will be
accepted as a favor, [the smallest favors thankfully accepted] and
writers who may undertake the task will confer an obligation by
directing a copy of their articles to the author, at New York, from
England, France or Germany, or any part of our own country where this
work may reach.” Certainly; no critic could do less—no liberal critic.
We shall send Mr. Roosevelt a copy of our criticism from Philadelphia,
and we would do the same thing if we were living at Timbuctoo.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. By_ Laman Blanchard. _2
    vols. Lea and Blanchard._

This work contains the most authentic biography of the lamented L. E. L.
yet issued from the press, together with a collection of her posthumous
pieces, and several lighter effusions already published. The volumes
possess uncommon interest. The detail of her every-day life, the picture
of her gaiety and sweetness, and the criticisms on her genius, will
commend it to all who have loved, in other days, the poetry of this
sweet writer. Nor will the details of her melancholy death prove of less
interest. After fully examining all the evidence relating to this
tragedy, the author arrives at the conclusion that her death was
natural, and instigated neither by her own sorrows nor by the jealousy
of others. The conduct of her husband seems, in every respect, to have
been without censure.

Of the genius of Miss Landon it is almost unnecessary to speak. Without
the elegance of Mrs. Hemans, she had considerable grace; with a fine
ear, she was often careless in her rhythm; possessing a fancy exuberant
and glowing, she showered her metaphors too indiscriminately around her.
But few equalled her—if we may so speak—in the _passionate purity_ of
her verse. Affection breathed through every line she wrote. Perhaps
there was a mannerism, certainly an affectation, in her constant
reference to love, and blighted love especially; but even this error was
made seductive by the never-ceasing variety which she contrived to throw
around her theme, and the sweetness, richness, and enthusiasm of her
song. Her great faults were a want of method, and a careless, rapid
habit of composition. From first to last, she was emphatically an
“_improvisatrice_.” She wrote from whim rather than from plan, and
consequently was often trite, and always careless. These observations
will apply, we think, equally to her prose. Her “Ethell Churchill” may
be taken as a specimen, and the best specimen, of her style in romance
writing. It would be almost invidious to name any one of her long poems
as the finest. In her shorter pieces she is often more successful than
in more extended flights; and some of her most carelessly written
stanzas glitter most with the dew of Castaly. Without fear of
contradiction, we may say that she has left no living female poet to
compete with her in fame, unless Mrs. Norton may be said to be her
rival; and even with Mrs. Norton, so different are the two writers, no
parallel can be drawn. Let us be contented with placing Hemans, Landon
and Norton together in one glorious trio—the sweetest, brightest,
loftiest of the female poets of the present generation.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Lectures on the Sphere and Character of Woman, and Other
    Subjects. By_ George W. Burnap, _Pastor of the First Independent
    Church of Baltimore. Philadelphia: Kay and Co._

These lectures are designed as a _pendant_ to a course delivered to the
Young Men of Baltimore, last winter, by Mr. Burnap. From the “Sphere and
Duties” of Woman the author has excluded all allusion to her physical
education and her political rights—regarding the first as a topic for
the physician, the last for the jurist. Perhaps this subdivision is
injudicious. At all events, from what we here know of Mr. Burnap, we
should have been pleased to have his subject extended to Woman in all
her relations.

The volume appears to us not only well written, but forcibly original in
many of its views and illustrations. A passage, at page 50, in which the
lecturer suggests the idea of an instinctive reverence in which each sex
holds the other, is not only new, but embodies a truth of important
result. Mr. B. justly styles the feeling a human religion. Its moral
effects are unquestionably great. The deterioration of every community
which isolates the sexes, or prevents their free intercommunication, is
here traced to a distinct and sufficient cause.

These lectures are handsomely printed and bound, and would form an
appropriate present to any lady.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Lady of Refinement in Manners, Morals and Religion. By_
    Mrs. Sandford, _Author of “Woman in her Social and Domestic
    Character.” James Loring: Boston._

Mrs. Sandford is the wife of an English clergyman, and has given
frequent evidences of her capacity. Her former work, “Woman in her
Social and Domestic Character,” was well received in her own country.
Whether it has been re-published here we cannot say. “The Lady of
Refinement” is well written, and appears to be carefully matured in its
opinions.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            SECRET WRITING.


Our remarks on this head, in the July number, have excited much
interest. The subject is unquestionably one of importance, when we
regard cryptography as an exercise for the analytical faculties. In this
view, men of the finest abilities have given it much of their attention;
and the invention of a perfect cipher was a point to which Lord
Chancellor Bacon devoted many months;—devoted them in vain, for the
cryptograph which he has thought worthy a place in his _De Augmentis_,
is one which can be solved.

Just as we were going to press with the last sheet of this number, we
received the following letter from F. W. Thomas, Esq., (of Washington,)
the well-known author of “Clinton Bradshawe,” “Howard Pinckney,” &c. &c.

    My Dear Sir:—The enclosed cryptograph is from a friend of mine
    (Dr. Frailey,) who thinks he can puzzle you. If you decipher it,
    then are you a magician, for he has used, as I think, the
    greatest art in making it.

                                                   Your friend,
                                                     F. W. Thomas.

[Illustration: image of cryptograph, transcription given below]

    £ 7i A itagi niinbiiit thitvuiaib9g h auehbiifb ivgiht itau %
    gvuiitiif 4 t$bt2ihtbo £iiiiadb9 iignit£d i2 ta5ta whbo
    ttbibtiii†it9 A iti if X hti 4 ithtt % i ‡ bnniathubii iSt b
    eaovuhoSu vtt7diboif * iti nihd6Xht na3ig an choo$ht n‡tnvotigg2
    iibtvo$if b Eaovu£avg iinoh†$h7 niau iti vtheiigbo iit6 A itagi
    t7iitig h fifvti iti gvugidviti bubodbub9 A tiiiiaditiavg nbttg
    iStavi fvuhiiu £thnhiti niiiit8 † bni 4 iiiu£$i ht d£bo evodbiSa
    ‡ nbiivihiti uavtib£g ibei —it dbuvo$if ia niafvti uvgtvnvobi
    buai9g uii iti £giSv9 i2 gvuiiti A uu iiubisg ibg tai —it
    iStavi tbvgi iti itiui A i2 intiuiiibo taovutg an dvaihfh¶
    iavitbog ¶f a ititvghbgight ittauh$h7g ht t7eiigb9bo £iiitavigi.

    Transcriber’s Note: In this transcription of the cryptograph,
    the % character has been substituted for a small right pointing
    hand character since depending on the device used and fonts
    available in the device used to view the cryptograph, the hand
    character may not display.

This cipher is printed precisely as we received it, with the exception
that we have substituted, for convenience sake, in some instances,
characters that we have in the office, for others that we have not. Of
course, as these characters are substituted _throughout_, the
cryptograph is not affected.

By return of mail we sent the solution to Mr. Thomas; but as the cipher
is an exceedingly ingenious one, we forbear publishing its translation
here, and prefer testing the ability of our readers to solve it. _We
will give a year’s subscription to the Magazine, and also a year’s
subscription to the Saturday Evening Post, to any person, or rather to
the first person who shall read us this riddle._ We have no expectation
that it will be read; and, therefore, should the month pass without an
answer forthcoming, we will furnish the key to the cipher, and again
offer a year’s subscription to the Magazine, to any person who shall
solve it _with the key_.

Lest the tenor of our observations on Cryptography should be
misunderstood, and especially lest the nature of our challenge should be
misconceived, we take occasion to refer to our Review of Mr. Walsh’s
“Sketches of Conspicuous Living Characters of France,” published in the
April number of the Magazine. M. Berryer, the French Minister, is there
said to have displayed the highest ingenuity in the solution of a cipher
addressed by the Duchess of Berri to the legitimists of Paris, but of
which she had neglected to furnish the key. Berryer discovered this to
be the phrase “Le gouvernement provisoire.” Beneath this sentence the
alphabet had been placed, letter for letter; and thus when _a_ was
intended _l_ was written, when _b_ was meant _e_ was substituted, and so
on throughout. This species of cryptograph is justly considered very
difficult. We remarked, however, that we would engage to read any one
_of the kind_; and to this limit our correspondents must confine
themselves. To be sure, we said, in our last number, that “human
ingenuity could not construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not
resolve”—but then we do not propose, just now, to make ourselves
individually the test of “human ingenuity” in general. We do not propose
to solve _all_ ciphers. Whether we can or cannot do this is a question
for another day—a day when we have more leisure than at present we have
any hope of enjoying. The most simple cryptograph requires, in its
solution, labor, patience, and much time. We therefore abide by the
limits of our cartel. It is true that in attempting the perusal of Dr.
Frailey’s we have exceeded these limits by very much; but we were
seduced into the endeavor to read it by the decided manner in which an
opinion was expressed that we could not.

E. St. J. will observe that his cipher includes _every_ letter of the
natural alphabet. Then (admitting it to be a cipher of the kind
proposed) his key-phrase must contain every letter of the natural
alphabet. In such case no letter of the phrase can stand _for more than
one_ of the alphabet, and the whole would be nothing more than a simple
cipher, where the natural characters are represented, invariably and
respectively, by arbitrary ones. But in this supposition there could be
no such words as _ll_, &c.—words seen in the cryptograph. _Therefore_,
his cipher is _not_ within the limits prescribed—Q. E. D. We do not say
that we _cannot_ solve it, but that we will not make the attempt. This
for the obvious reasons above assigned.

P. S. We have just received the annexed letter from Mr. Thomas,
enclosing one from Dr. Frailey:

                                        Washington, July 6th, 1841.

    My Dear Sir,

    This morning I received yours of yesterday, deciphering the
    “cryptograph” which I sent you last week, from my friend, Doctor
    Frailey. You request that I would obtain the Doctor’s
    acknowledgment of your solution. I have just received the
    enclosed from him.

    Doctor Frailey had heard me speak of your having deciphered a
    letter which our mutual friend, Dow, wrote upon a challenge from
    you last year, at my lodgings in your city, when Aaron Burr’s
    correspondence in cipher was the subject of our conversation.
    You laughed at what you termed Burr’s shallow artifice, and said
    you could decipher any such cryptography easily. To test you on
    the spot, Dow withdrew to the corner of the room, and wrote a
    letter in cipher, which you solved in a much shorter time than
    it took him to indite it.

    As Doctor Frailey seemed to doubt your skill to the extent of my
    belief in it, when your article on “Secret Writing” appeared in
    the last number of your Magazine, I showed it to him. After
    reading it, he remarked that he thought he could puzzle you, and
    the next day he handed me the cryptograph which I transmitted to
    you. He did not tell me the key. The uncommon nature of his
    article, of which I gave you not the slightest hint, made me
    express to you my strong doubts of your ability to make the
    solution. I confess that your solution, so speedily and
    correctly made, surprised me. I congratulate myself that I do
    not live in an age when the black art is believed in, for,
    innocent as I am of all knowledge of cryptography, I should be
    arrested as an accessory before the fact, and, though I escaped,
    it is certain that you would have to die the death, and, alas! I
    fear upon my testimony.

                                                   Your friend,
                                                     F. W. Thomas.
     Edgar A. Poe, Esq.


                                        Washington, July 6th, 1841.

    Dear Sir,

    It gives me pleasure to state that the reading, by Mr. Poe, of
    the cryptograph which I gave you a few days since for
    transmission to him, is correct. I am the more astonished at
    this since—— [We omit the remainder of the letter, since it
    enters into details which would give our readers some clue to
    the cipher.]

                                            As ever, yours, &c.,
                                                 Chas. S. Frailey.
     F. W. Thomas, Esq.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: LATEST FASHIONS, AUGUST 1841. FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained. Obvious
punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 2, August 1841_, George R.
Graham, Editor]